


When Tomorrow Comes

by voidify



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Angst with a Happy Ending, Buckets of Happy Tears, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Everyone Ships Valvert, Fast Paced Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Angst and Humour, Heaven, Humour, Internalised Homophobia, Javert is Super Extra, Kissing, Living Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, My first multi chapter fic, Past Child Death, Past Suicide, Pining, Post-Canon, Self Blame Issues, Symbolism, Tsundere Javert, UST, both of our Main Boys are huge oblivious dorks with serious issues, but alas! it is, but it’s inherent to the premise that all the canon character death has happened, especially r, fantine the exposition machine, now no longer unresolved!, oddly specific worldbuilding but most of it has some significance, past canon character death, some dialogue sounds too modern but it’s a deliberate writing choice, that tag rhymed, the burn would be far faster if that were not the case, there’s no actual depictions of character death, who is Javert’s best friend bc they’re a great brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-09-16 21:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidify/pseuds/voidify
Summary: Valjean arrives in Heaven— but Javert doesn’t seem to be there. Then Valjean discovers that Javert is indeed there, but there is a problem: death doesn’t always fix emotional issues.And as it happens, that statement is relevant for more than just Javert.(A Valvert afterlife fic.)





	1. Lost in the Valley of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started out as a songfic of how I would do the musical’s finale if I made an animatic or directed a production, because I was ANGRY when I learned that the Official™ staging didn’t put Javert in the finale. I’ve expanded and changed it a LOT since then, but those roots are still part of it— there are a few bits of songfic in chapter 1 and the epilogue, and the chapter titles are all drawn from lyrics of the finale.
> 
> Brick was referenced for the timing and details of relevant canon events whenever possible, but other than that, there are inspirations from all over the place— versions of canon, headcanons, other fics, stuff I came up with to fit the story, whatever.
> 
> I have no idea how the update schedule will work, but I'll try my best.
> 
> This is my first time ever writing a serious multi-chapter fic, so keep that in mind if some parts have room for improvement! If you enjoy it, _please_ give some sort of positive feedback to show that; I will have way more motivation to keep writing if I know that people like this fic!

Valjean was dead, but as he expected, that wasn’t the end.

He saw Cosette and Marius grieving—he saw Fantine, restored to health and clothed in white, taking his hand and helping him stand up—he looked behind him, and saw his own lifeless corpse on the chair.

Fantine led him to the nearest door; it was still open from when Cosette and Marius had walked through it minutes prior, but the room it led to was no longer visible—instead, the door-frame enclosed a swirling plane of soft white light. Fantine walked through the door, and Valjean followed.

They were now in a hallway formed from the same white void, leading to a room with an angel at a desk next to another door. As they approached, Valjean could hear a strangely familiar tune echoing…

Fantine let go of Valjean’s arm and said something to the angel. Valjean couldn’t hear most of it, but he picked out a mention of his name. The angel nodded, and the door opened on its own.

Valjean let out a gasp.

   
_Do you hear the people sing?_  
_Lost in the valley of the night_  
_It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light_  
 

The scenery before him was nothing like his expectations, and yet even better. No fluffy clouds, no roads paved with gold; instead, this version of Heaven took the shape of a peaceful outdoor scene, unlike anything he had ever seen yet strangely familiar. Between two trees was strung a banner reading “WELCOME, JEAN!”, under which stood a crowd. 

From this crowd, he could pick out the faces of nearly everyone he knew who was no longer alive (among others he did not quite recognise). His parents, Bishop Myriel, Fauchelevent, all those who died at the barricade… then when he saw his brother-in-law he saw his sister was there as well, and standing beside them were all seven of the children. A moment of dread washed over him as he suddenly found himself in the past: _I failed, I got caught, and now they’re all—_ he forced himself to ignore the guilt, reminding himself that he is in Heaven and such concerns are irrelevant now. Besides, none of them seemed to hold anything against him.

All at once, the strange familiarity of the scenery before Valjean gained clarity. It was an amalgamation of memories from different points in his life; he was sure he had forgotten many of them by the time he died, but now every one of them was as clear as yesterday, and he found himself identifying every aspect. That grove of trees was one he had seen often back in Faverolles; that cobbled path connecting his current position to the welcoming crowd was from his time as the mayor of Montreuil; many of the plants dotting the grass were from gardens he had cultivated at the convent and in Paris; there was even a reminder of Digne in a patch of lavender in the distance. 

Only one era of his life was entirely absent, but the reasons for _that_ were obvious. 

Valjean rushed forward and hugged each member of the crowd in turn—first his family, then old friends, then those who he barely knew while alive but who clearly cared so much about him. 

As he did this, he wept. Many of his tears were of joy, but some— a very significant some— were not.

***

An indeterminate amount of time passed as Valjean reunited with familiar faces, acquainted himself with unfamiliar ones, and answered some questions about the details of events that had occurred between their arrivals and his. 

Fantine then stepped in. “Well, I hope you all had a good reunion, but I should probably show Jean around now.” 

The other ghosts did not protest. Fantine gestured for Valjean to follow her, and he did. He let her lead him away from the crowd; when he glanced back for a second to the direction whence he had entered Heaven, he saw that the door and the path had faded away, leaving no sign that there had ever been anything but a hill there. 

Valjean returned his gaze to the direction of travel when Fantine spoke. “So, this is Heaven. Specifically, the Corner that was generated for you, with the assistance of your subconscious, upon your arrival. Every newly arrived ghost gets assigned a Corner, with its appearance often pulled from idealised versions of memories; sometimes multiple people who would wish to spend eternity together are given the same Corner, which is especially likely if they arrived quite closely together— the ABC Society’s a good example of that, with their shared Corner of a heavily barricaded Paris. But often enough it’s one ghost to one Corner, and meeting others is done just through visits.” 

Valjean nodded, slightly bemused at some of the unconventional details, but willing to take Fantine’s word on it. Fantine took this as a cue to continue.

“You might have noticed that many of the souls who welcomed you look more youthful or healthier than you remember us being in life; this is because ghosts’ forms change based on our self-image and mental state, and many of us are in a better place— no pun intended— in that regard than we ever were in life. Myself included. It seems like you’re still quite similar to your arrival form; the issues causing this should hopefully be cleared up soon so you can enjoy your eternity to the fullest, but for now it’s anyone’s guess exactly what the issues are.”

“Wow, you really know everything about this place.”

“Well, I’ve had a decade to learn,” Fantine said with a shrug, and… what was almost a chuckle? Valjean was not sure that he understood what was supposed to be amusing about that. Fantine continued: “Also, I’m a trainee; it’s kind of my job to know everything about the workings of Heaven. Usually ghosts are welcomed by an angel receptionist; Karen at the door would have been that for you under normal circumstances, but a new program allowing trainees to act as new arrivals’ guides is being developed, so I volunteered to be your guide!”

That reminded Valjean of something. “You know, I was wondering—what was it you whispered to… Karen,” Valjean made a momentary face of puzzlement at the unfamiliar name, “back there, by the way?”

“Oh, that was just ‘this is Jean Valjean (1769-1833); I’m his guide, Fantine (‘96-‘23)’. In the next version of the system the receptionist might be absent altogether, but it’s still at a very early stage of development, so the guide has to tell them the basic information to be let back in.”

“…Okay.”

Fantine changed the subject back to the matter she had been explaining before. “Right now this Corner is all countryside, but you can modify it as you wish. It can be easier or harder to modify the world around you depending on various factors, but it’s always possible to some extent. Technically, a ghost can summon any object they both want and can picture, since nothing here is truly corporeal,” Fantine demonstrated by summoning an apple, “but it’s still fully possible to make things the long way— craft, gardening, the practice of just about any skill can be replicated here if it brings enjoyment. The products of skilled pursuits are in demand, too; though there’s nothing here resembling an economy as on Earth, skilled creations are often traded or given as gifts, because they tend to have a certain charm that’s absent in summoned items.”

“Maybe you’d like to try creating a house for yourself? It’s a good exercise in modification. Just pick a spot, go up to it, and think really hard about how you want a house there; it’ll spring up just as you want even if you can’t express what it _is_ you want.”

Valjean chose a plot of land framed by trees. He closed his eyes, and tried to imagine what he could think of as a home. Fantine was right; it _was_ difficult to picture exactly what he wanted; for most of his life, he had inhabited merely a dwelling, not a _home_ — but he tried anyway, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the structure he had apparently created from thin air: a little thatch-roofed cottage. 

It was small enough to be cozy, but it was far from being a hut; two of its front-facing windows were elevated above the other two in a way that formed clear evidence of an upstairs. There was a vine creeping up one side, and a few plants already present in its large garden, which was surrounded by a quaint little wooden fence. A cobbled garden path not unlike the one Valjean had followed to his welcome party connected the gate to the door. 

A modest plaque above the door bore Valjean’s name, marking the house as his— and as truly _his_ , not as the property of some false name taken for survival. 

It was… perfect.

“What do you think? You can expand it or change any aspect whenever if you want, but for now, why not go in and check out what you created?”

Valjean opened the gate and walked toward the house. This place had just about all he could ever hope for in Heaven, but one thought now nagged at his mind. What had become of Javert? He knew the man was no longer alive, but he hadn’t been there with all the others. Maybe he wasn’t notified? Maybe he just didn’t want to see Valjean? 

Or maybe—given the circumstances of Javert’s death—could it be that—

No…

Valjean stopped on the garden path; memories started flooding back of the day he learned of Javert's fate. 

Walking through Paris, he’d happened to pass a group of gossips just as one mentioned a name that grabbed his focus. _‘—Javert, I think that’s what his name was—yeah, did you hear he’s dead?’ ‘What? That can’t be true!’ ‘It is! They found him in the Seine the other night. They’re saying he jumped…’_

Valjean’s mind had started to race as he sped back up to a brisk walk. _No—that can’t be—not Javert— why would he of all people—_ He tried to still his mind, tried to reassure himself that the gossip of Parisian ladies oft meant nothing, but he still made haste to the nearest newspaper vendor to buy the latest _Moniteur_. He paid, took the paper, and immediately began walking away at the same half-panicked pace (without bothering to wait for his change; the vendor likely had better use for those extra sous than Valjean did anyway), focusing entirely on flipping through the pages for any confirmation or denial of what the ladies had said.

Then, he found it. On one page, there was a note reading ‘Police inspector Javert was found drowned under a boat of the Pont-au-Change’.

The text of the notice had entirely confirmed the ladies’ statements: a body found in the Seine had been identified as Inspector Javert, and suicide was indeed noted as the most likely possibility.

At the time, Valjean had clung to any scrap of hope he could find, trying to find some loophole to assume the soul of the man he had tried to spare secure. The article’s proposed circumstance for his suicide was ‘a fit of mental aberration’… well, if it wasn’t truly voluntary he couldn’t be damned for it, right? And Javert had spared Valjean, allowed him to take Marius to safety, when by all logic he should have arrested him— a sudden moment of madness would explain that too. 

But now, seeing that the other man was absent from Heaven, Valjean wasn’t so sure. 

And the more he thought about it, the more he found to mark himself responsible. That article had mentioned Javert ‘owing his life to an insurgent’ as a possible factor, which could only have referred to Valjean’s act of mercy at the barricade. No, and not only had Valjean unwittingly caused Javert to believe he owed his life, he had proven wrong everything Javert held dear—and Javert’s last known act, his final message to the world, was a letter containing suggestions for _prison reform_. Javert had never been known to rock the boat, always an unwavering arm of the law, but if Valjean had shattered everything Javert held dear, and the suggestions for change were the last thing Javert wrote before ending his own life—

_But_ , Valjean thought, _what else could I have done?_ To kill Javert at the barricade, to leave the other man’s twisted ideology unshaken, was never in Valjean’s nature. And indeed, such an ideology _should_ be proven wrong, it would be a harm in and of itself to leave someone unaware of the truth. How then could Valjean feel guilty, when his actions had been entirely meant for the good of the Inspector?

Except… they hadn’t. After Valjean had gone into his house to farewell Cosette, he had looked out the window and seen that Javert was gone. And yet he had stayed in the house, assumed that everything was fine. He could have followed Javert. Could have talked him off that parapet, or if not, gone in after him and pulled him out. The part of the Seine where Javert had drowned was turbulent, yes, but Valjean was improbably good at swimming— while it had been a decade since the Orion escape, Valjean had not entirely lost his skill, and he had still possessed some of his strength at the very least; he could have at least tried to save the man’s life.

But he hadn’t.

Valjean had killed a man with mercy, and damned him through inaction. 

Though ghosts do not technically have digestive systems, Valjean felt a sensation of nausea.

***

But before Valjean could dwell any more on this, the sound of Fantine’s voice suddenly beside him brought him out of this whirlpool of guilt. “I’m so sorry, I forgot earlier— there’s someone I need to show you…”

Fantine led Valjean by the hand, much faster than before, out of the garden and into a shimmering portal that had not been there before. They raced through featureless white corridors; still running, Fantine shut her eyes tight and muttered a code of numbers and letters, then when Valjean next blinked he opened his eyes to see that they had reached their destination.

Fantine let go of Valjean’s hand. They stood on the boundary of a Corner— an impossibly scenic reimagining of a Paris night. Valjean stood there, taking in the scene, while Fantine took a few steps back. “Well, here he is…”

A tall man with long dark hair wearing a long coat was standing a few metres into this scene, the only living being present in it as far as Valjean could see. He was facing away from them to look up at the night sky, but he turned at the sound of a voice; when Valjean saw the man’s face, his jaw dropped, and tears of joy started welling up in his eyes.

   
_The chain will be broken, and all men will have their reward!_  
 

The man Fantine had led Valjean to, as the reader has most likely already discerned, was Javert. 

Javert’s expression upon seeing Valjean was somewhere between embarrassment, apology and the look of a deer in the headlights. He half-cowered as if he expected to be the target of rage; he certainly didn’t expect it when Valjean rushed forward and hugged him so tightly that it would have injured Javert were the laws of physics applicable to ghosts (indeed, given that in this moment Valjean found himself once more in possession of all his strength, several of Javert’s ribs may well have been broken by the hug if not for the idiosyncrasies of Heaven).

Javert turned bright red, equal parts stunned, confused, and flustered. It took him a moment to process what was happening, but then, his face spontaneously losing wrinkles to the point that he looked at least five years younger, he awkwardly hugged the shorter man back.

After a few moments of near-silence sobbing into the other man’s chest, Valjean managed to turn his face upwards and speak the words “…you’re… here…?” 

“What, are you surprised?” Javert said, half-jokingly and almost on reflex.

“Uh—” Valjean let go of Javert and stumbled back a step, his face suddenly flushed; he seemed to take it as a genuine accusation, as if anyone could ever mistake him as one who would want anyone with even the slightest glimmer of a redeeming quality to go to Hell.

Javert noticed the misunderstanding. “Wait, no, I— that’s not what—” he took a breath and composed himself somewhat, “No offense taken, really, you had no reason to know their judgement system worked the way it does.” 

There was silence for a second; neither man knew what to say. 

“Well, now you know, I shan’t draw this out any longer than it needs to be; I’m sure you have important things to do,” Javert turned to leave as if he considered his own presence an inconvenience.

Fantine was still there. “No— I mean, it’s true Jean’s not done settling in back at his Corner, but if delaying that is your concern, you could come along and explain the misunderstanding on the way.”

Before Javert could comment, Valjean took his hand and began walking.

“Well! I suppose, if I have no choice,” Javert said, with a tone of begrudgement that was obviously and poorly feigned.

They walked through white corridors, and Javert began to explain. “Alright, let’s just get the _obvious_ out of the way. To directly quote my receptionist when I, ah, raised that concern upon arrival: ‘that whole mortal-sin clause has been unenforceable nearly the whole time it’s been there’.”

“So…?”

“Yes. Actions that don’t harm _others_ are generally considered morally neutral in the grand scheme of things, apparently— and, before you ask,” Valjean had not formed any specific plans to ask, “as for my actions which _did_ , it _also_ turns out that the closest thing to justice possible for a ‘redeemable’ person (official terminology, by the way, I’m sure you love being right all along) is retribution from wronged parties who still hold rightful grudges— but even those,” he gestured to Fantine, who did not react, her focus still entirely on navigation, “mostly forgave me upon seeing my last moments. I had no choice but to accept that this was where I’d spend my eternity.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Valjean innocently remarked.

Javert froze at that comment, but Fantine spoke before the conversation could advance in any way: “Hold that thought, guys; we’re almost back!”

And indeed, when they made the next turn, they had arrived in the very same Corner that Valjean had been welcomed into. A flurry of voices came from the idling remainders of the welcoming group as they saw who was beside Valjean.

“Oh, there he is, and—hey, haven’t seen _that_ face in a while! How’s it going?”

“Hm? Who’s that?”

“Hey, Javert! Wow, I haven’t seen you since you arrived. You look younger… congratulations!”

“Our Jean and a policeman? Didn’t see _that_ coming!”

“Hey Inspector! Ya done sitting around pining for months on end now he’s here?” “Oh, and you’re sooo one to talk, R…” “Shut up.”

Javert, trying and failing not to blush scarlet, shot a stern glance at Grantaire for that remark. 

Valjean somehow didn’t seem to register it; instead, his mind was on the way the people who recognised Javert had spoken to him—and who those people were. “You’re on informal terms with the boys from the barricade?” he asked.

“Uh, well…” he paused, trying to phrase it in a way that didn’t require admitting any positive attachment, “it—it’s not like I could’ve avoided interaction. We died in the same city within less than a day of each other, proximity of residential Corners was inevitable—” 

Fantine interjected, “As a trainee for some angel duties, I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—” 

“AND! Well, they forgave FAR more from me than I could ever repay, so I was simply honour-bound to humour their attempts at conversation, and accept however they refer to me! It’s not like they’re, my actual friends, or anything! Idiots!” Javert crossed his arms, his face still red. He seemed to be trying to retreat into his coat like a turtle would its shell.

Half-suppressed laughter could be heard from the group as a whole after hearing this. One of the boys called out “Okay ‘Vert, call it debts if you want, whatever helps you sleep at night…”

The crowd half-returned to conversing among themselves; those who knew Javert seemed satisfied enough with the amount of conversation they had already gotten, and those who didn’t were preoccupied asking the others about him. Now that there weren’t so many people staring, Valjean looked at Javert and asked, “What were you going to say before? It seemed like you— Javert, are you okay?”

Javert was wholly unprepared to answer this. He startled; several unintelligible sounds came out of his mouth before he managed to form words. “Of—of _course_ I’m okay,” he managed to say, unconvincingly, “why would you—”

Javert then appeared to become fully aware of a fact that he had previously failed to notice: that Grantaire had broken away from the group, and was now closer to Javert and Valjean than he was to the rest of the people present. More specifically, that he was now leaning on a table that had not been there before, as he wiggled his eyebrows wildly and said, “Yeah, Javert, what are you hiding...?”

If Javert had been incoherent before, he was even worse now, his face a whole new shade of red. Before anyone else could get a word in (like Valjean, for example, to ask what was going on), Javert summoned some sort of small, round object and threw it down, producing a cloud of smoke. 

When the smoke cleared, Javert had disappeared back down the corridors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I wasn’t originally planning to write the bit where Javert was a literal _platonic textbook-tsundere_ about the Amis, it just kinda… happened. Yay for character establishment?
> 
> The VJ memory of finding out is 100% Brick compliant (see 5.5.5 and 5.9.4).


	2. The Garden of the Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back; it's time for some alternating POV, and that Javert & Grantaire friendship I was hyping up! At a point in development, I was half-considering making this into two chapters, but I couldn’t think of a good title for the first one, and the second one turned out shorter than I was expecting, so I scrapped the chapter break. Then it became a lot longer than I thought it would be, but there continued to be no approximately-halfway point that would make a clean chapter break, so I've left it as one chapter.
> 
> Shoutout to E (garconrouge) for giving me some pointers for Ami characterisation (I'm still not fully confident at writing most of the Amis, but he was a great help with deciding the specifics of one particular moment), and also to El (onegaymore) for beta-reading the chapter!
> 
> Content note: the internalised homophobia tag starts becoming relevant for angst here. Also there's some swearing in this chapter, just in case anyone is reading this at school or something (which you shouldn't be doing, but I'm not your parent).
> 
> Enjoy!

Javert quickly made his way back through the corridor to his Corner, the beautiful Parisian night. Unlike most ghosts, he did not exactly reside in any particular one of the buildings present in the Corner; instead, he had spent most of the year brooding in one public space or another (usually outdoors ones, the main exception being an inn— known to him from work-related memories— where he slept on the rare occasion that he wanted to sleep; he was not quite so self-flagellating that he would sleep on a bench like some unfortunate vagabond in _Heaven_ ). This owed in part to the fact that he did not see the utility in a house, being dead, and to the fact that he enjoyed viewing the night sky outdoors (especially as the stars were far more consistently visible here than they had ever been in the real Paris); but those were really more excuses than reasons— in truth, the primary reason was that he had never particularly enjoyed any of the places he had lived in the city in life, but found it far more difficult to summon new structures than other ghosts seemed to. He had tried, and found it nigh-impossible to summon anything particularly complex, or larger than approximately the size of a chair. 

He found his favourite brooding spot— one of the many parapets on one of the Seine’s many bridges. The reader may note worrying common ground with the means of his death, but in truth that was little more than accidental correlation— Javert chose the spot for the view of the sky it provided, with the morbid thrill merely an afterthought. 

Indeed, even if he had wished to fall, he was unable to; an invisible barrier existed less than a metre below any given edge above this Corner’s version of the Seine. Javert had discovered that fact first-hand very soon after his arrival, in an experience that elicited the following sequence of emotions: first, a brief moment of confusion, then a mixture of disappointment and annoyance, and finally, acute embarrassment at the absurdity of his expectation. 

Javert sat upon the parapet, facing outwards, and at last allowed himself to think of the last few minutes’ events. 

He rested his head in his hands.

Oh God, what had he just done?

***

_Meanwhile, back at Valjean’s Corner…_

Javert’s exit had, unsurprisingly, drawn the attention of several of the remaining members of the group. Those who did not know Javert were increasingly bemused; their proportion of the crowd dwindled, as many, having given up on understanding what had just occurred, left to go home (some by surreptitiously summoning portals, others apparently disappearing into thin air).

Most of those who did not immediately leave were the young men from the barricade. Though Valjean had conversed with some of them earlier, and he had heard some names thrown around, there were still quite a few for whom he had not put names to faces. Valjean overheard a conversation between two of them regarding the events.

“A smoke bomb? Really? So overly dramatic…”  
“I mean, when was ‘overly dramatic’ ever _not_ the norm for Javert?” (Despite the mocking words, his tone of voice seemed somewhat affectionate.)  
“…Good point.”

Another one directed a question to Grantaire, with a countenance expressing equal portions of exasperation and fond amusement. “Okay, what did you do?”

Grantaire sprung up from the table, which promptly disappeared. “Hey, what do you—” he cut off his defensive remark, conceding the point as he processed it, “Okay, _that_ just then, yes, I absolutely misjudged the situation, my bad. But in my defence, I don’t think Javert is going to be _that_ mad at me, at least probably not. In any case, I should go. Where’s the portal to our Corner? Oh, there isn’t one yet, dude’s new. Well, I’ll just leave it here, I guess,” and at the point Grantaire was gesturing to (and already walking towards), there now stood a door-frame; it was parchment-coloured with an intricate red edging and a plaque above it reading “Les Amis de l’ABC” in copperplate writing, and it enclosed a plane of white swirling light just like the other portals Valjean had seen.

Valjean then snapped out of whatever state had caused his complete inaction until that point. “Um. Should I…?”, he asked in the general direction of the remaining group, hesitantly beginning to turn toward the corridor behind him.

Grantaire, who had at that point half-entered the portal, leaned back out to answer before any of the others could. “No. If I know Javert— _and I know Javert_ — you following him now will make it _less_ likely that you’ll get any meaningful conversation, so just… let him go brood for a bit; don’t worry too much. He’llbe back later at some point, and I doubt it’ll be too long, so,” he shrugged, as he went back through the portal. Valjean could not help but think Grantaire was saying less than he knew, but a few of the remaining young men gave nods of agreement, so Valjean stayed put. There was a little noise behind Valjean; he looked, and the corridor was gone.

A faint sound, similar to a small bell, came from the direction of one of the boys— the one who remains bespectacled even though it seems those would be redundant in Heaven. “Oh, some people are at my d—” he poked at the (now faintly glowing) air in front of him, “Ah, it’s just time for my chess club; those are all the regulars.” An expression of excitement. “…and someone new! You have to see this, guys.”

“Who is it this time?” 

“Edward Jenner (1749-1823)— inventor of the smallpox vaccine!” The chess club founder looked as if he was going to burst with excitement.

A shorter young man, pale with brown hair, who Valjean recalled hearing referred to with a name beginning with ‘J’, was immediately piqued by this. “Wow, Ferre, really?” He walked over to look at the screen, his bald friend in tow, and apparently found confirmation— “That’s so cool! I can’t wait to meet him!”

Two others had also made their respective ways over to Combeferre in this time— the one with reddish hair and a cap, and the one with his hair in a queue possessing the other ‘J’ name.

Combeferre cast a glance to one of the few other remaining ABC members. “Courf, you coming?”

“I’d love to, but... “ Courfeyrac checked something, “I’ve got something else to attend.”

“Oh, is it that thing with the Greeks again?” 

“...Yes. In my defence, though—”

“Nah, ‘s all good; just wanted to know. Well, see you after, then.”

“Alright.” Courfeyrac, with a wink, disappeared; there was a noise like a series of small bells.

“Okay, everybody on.” In one apparently rehearsed movement, Combeferre raised his arms halfway, and the four men clustered around him lined up and grabbed onto his arms. The two whose names began with ‘J’ were at the two ends of the line, each holding one of Combeferre’s wrists, while the other two were behind Combeferre, each to one side of him with a hand on their respective side’s upper arm.

Before the group could go, however, one of them thought of something. “Should we wait for Grantaire?”  
“Eh, might as well not. Given his track record, he’d just ask weird questions and play by weirder house rules. If he wants to show up late, he can.”  
“…True.”

Then, the five disappeared to the chess club, with the same sound as when Combeferre had been notified.

 

It was at this moment that Fantine reminded Valjean, “You still haven’t finished setting up.”

The few dawdling remainders of the group shrugged in vague agreement, and left through the portal Grantaire had created, which did not disappear.

Valjean wondered something. “I’ve noticed at least three or four different ways of transport between Corners being used— are there any differences between them, besides cosmetically?”

“Oh, glad you asked. First there’s teleportation— ghosts can only teleport to soul-bonded locations (and take anything or anyone on their person with them); it’s possible to soul-bond to any location in any Corner, if it would be of significant convenience to be able to teleport there, but the most invariable site of soul-bonding is one’s own home. Then momentary portals— they can lead to any place in your own Corner, or define an end of the corridors; when you say another Corner’s address in the corridors to define the other end as that Corner, a temporary link forms between the two Corners that can be closed by a resident of either end, and traversed by anyone while it lasts. Persistent portals, like the one Grantaire just made, can be created in another Corner to lead to your own, or in your own Corner to lead to any address you know; they stick around indefinitely until closed or moved by a resident of either end. And… that’s basically it!” 

“I see.”

“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Fantine gestured towards Valjean’s house. Valjean nodded and began towards it, resolving to avoid consideration of the last few events, at least until he had properly settled in; he would not get anything done otherwise. This time, his following of the garden path was not interrupted by a sudden crisis; he reached the door and opened it.

The indoors of the house appeared just as perfectly suited to Valjean as the outdoors had implied. The wide windows let in much natural light, and there were bookshelves lining multiple of the walls. It seemed somehow bigger on the inside— but the impression he had formed of its coziness was also confirmed. 

On the side that was to Valjean’s right as he stood at the door, there was a living room. A fireplace was present in the far corner, and two armchairs and a couch were arranged to face it. 

To his left, there was a dining area. It contained a charming wooden table circled by six matching chairs. The upholstered seats of the chairs were made from the same green-and-white checkered fabric as the tablecloth (Valjean remarked to himself that this particular green was his favourite colour).

The wall behind this area, Valjean then noticed, was interrupted by an empty door-frame; though only a small slice of the adjacent room could be seen through the frame, enough was visible to evidence what purpose the room served.

“A kitchen…” Valjean mused.

Fantine took the cue to explain. “Eating is optional here, as is sleeping, but both are still fully possible— and cooking is just like any other skill in that it can be practiced and honed here if it brings enjoyment. Since this was here in the initial construction, it must mean your subconscious wanted you to have the opportunity.”

Valjean had a thought on an unrelated note. “I’d like to know— is there a way to view events on Earth from here? I just…” He had intended to explain, but changed his mind and trailed off.

But Fantine understood his intent all the same. She shook her head. “I’d like to be able to check on Cosette just as much as you do— but… no; in the vast majority of circumstances, it’s impossible to view events on Earth from Heaven. The timeline here is… separate to there; the only definite points of correspondence are arrivals, and the intervals between those usually take longer on one side or the other— in a way that’s entirely unpredictable, and often varies between different parts of Heaven too.”

Valjean nodded, absorbing the information. Fantine continued. “Real-time viewing of Earth is limited to short windows of time immediately surrounding imminent-slash-recent arrivals. This is part of the usual arrival process; when a Heaven-bound arrival meets their receptionist, souls who would wish to greet them— _greet_ here being a blanket term for both peaceful welcome and, ah, _settling the score_ — are given a chance to see how the arrival’s life ended (and a little context from a designated angel if needed), so they have a chance to revise their greeting plan based on what they learned.—That’s what Javert meant when he mentioned being forgiven after we saw his last moments,” she added as an afterthought. 

The mention of Javert made it very difficult for Valjean to uphold his resolution to avoid certain worrisome thoughts— but Fantine continued before Valjean could sink too deep into that train of thought. “We’re still figuring out how the same chance can be fully offered to greeters of souls guided by a trainee— now that I mention the program, by the way, fun fact: this window of opportunity is what it was harnessing when I brought you to the portal! But… as I was saying, other than the final moments of a new arrival with some relevance to you, the only way to learn of goings-on on Earth is indirectly, through information given by newcomers. You must not let this fact become an overpowering source of sorrow— remember that Earth is for the living, and a soul should not spend their eternity occupied by events that can never again include them; the eternal happiness promised _will_ come to you, but dwelling on known impossibilities can only delay it.”

Valjean was curious about something entirely Javert-unrelated now, so he asked. “This… new program— the way you always speak of it makes it seem like Heaven is still ironing out flaws. Is this true?” 

“In brief— yes. Upper management is constantly trying to improve Heaven with new features and tweaks to old ones, so there’s always something being tested to determine how it affects the experience. Sometimes these changes become universal standard, sometimes they get completely reimagined, sometimes they get scrapped after their first sample of subject souls— but they’re always introduced with the intent of making Heaven more enjoyable or interesting.” Fantine paused for a moment— “So, shall I leave you to settle into your new home, now?”

Valjean was jerked back to reality. “Uh— yes. Yes, that’s fine; you can go if you want.” She did.

Well, that had been some… interesting information. This Heaven had even less in common with his original expectations than he had previously thought, and he felt somewhat downhearted that he would not be able to see Cosette for as many years as she was to live. Nevertheless, Valjean felt somewhat reassured by how Fantine had said the basic premise of a happy existence was ensured to eventually occur— and he was then aware of the fact that he had not explored the rest of his home, so he set his mind to doing so.

 

One of the first things he noticed that he had not before was that the house had a back door, opening from the living room onto a small covered patio looking onto the garden— which he would have begun to tend right away, had he not opted to acquaint himself with the rest of the house proper first.

Just beside the kitchen, Valjean could see the staircase to the upper story of the house; he ascended it. The room at the top of the stairs contained two windows, a bookshelf and an armchair, but little else.

When Valjean turned to his left, he noticed a short corridor ending with a door. Valjean walked to and opened the door; it opened into what he supposed must be his bedroom. This room had two windows, one to the front of the house and another to the side. It contained a large bed, big enough for at least two people to sleep in, with nightstands on each side of it. There was also a dresser with a mirror, and a chair in one corner.

The door beside that of the master bedroom led to an office. This room was fairly simple; a desk was in the far end of the room, and a front-facing window was present. On the desk were things that seemed to be writing materials, as well as a soft green mote of light similar to the one at the door, but ever-changing in shape rather than spherical.

Quitting the study and making for the stairs once more, Valjean noticed a door to his right. It led to a second bedroom— somewhat smaller than the one he had seen, and themed in tones of blue and purple. The furniture of this room was of a darker wood than the master bedroom; it consisted of a double bed, nightstands, and a dresser. It had one window, through which the covering of the patio and the back garden could be seen. Valjean supposed this room may be useful if he were to invite guests over.

It occurred to Valjean as he approached the stairs (this time in earnest) that the house did not contain a restroom on either of its floors. Then again, he supposed it was only logical that ghosts would not need such things.

Valjean walked back down the stairs, and smiled; this house had all he wanted— but then, his mind began to wander back to the previous events, and he had no excuse to distract himself now, so he failed to stop himself from thinking of Javert. 

Yes, Javert was in Heaven, and had given a fully logical explanation as to the course of events leading to that fact— but Valjean could still not help but worry for him.

Javert had clearly been lying when he said he was okay; that was far, _far_ too obvious for Valjean to have missed. Knowing this, Valjean could not stop himself from asking a million questions he had no means to answer. What was the manner of this problem Javert so obviously had? How could Valjean help him work through it— could he do so at all? ...Was it all Valjean’s fault?

Then, suddenly, Valjean’s mind settled upon a remark whose content he had not heeded at the time. The boy Grantaire had stated that Javert had been ‘pining’ for much of his time present— and he had implied that it was over Valjean. 

***

Javert rubbed his forehead. Ugh, he had _entirely_ made a fool of himself back there. He had almost certainly failed to set Valjean at ease that his issues were of the past (and yes, that was not true, but the last thing he needed was to be pitied or worried about, especially _here_ ), his explanation of why the rebel boys were _not_ his friends had been _utterly_ unconvincing, and to top it all off, Grantaire had said things that could only make it all even _worse_.

Grantaire had not lied at all to say that Javert had been pining over Valjean for much of his time in Heaven. Javert, in a surprising instance of self-honesty, was not in denial of this fact, nor of the facts from his time on Earth that served as prerequisites to it. 

But— there was no way Valjean could ever _possibly_ return Javert’s feelings. 

For all the time Valjean had known Javert, the implacable Inspector had been a source of terror, a shadow chasing after him to threaten the utter ruination of his life. If he were to know that this shadow’s motivation had been augmented from the very beginning by carnal attraction— that this attraction, over the years, had mingled with unprecedented emotions to produce an unprecedented sentiment eventually identified by Javert as— _love_ — and that this sentiment had been continued _even now_ — these facts could only inspire shock and repulsion on Valjean’s part, if he were to discover them. 

Yes, Javert knew that the way he felt was not, technically, a sin— the receptionist had made that _very_ clear when he had attempted to include it as an item in his frantically-compiled list of arguments against his placement in Heaven— but to think _Valjean_ could feel the same way? The man was as chaste as a saint in marble; to imagine him harbouring anything for his former adversary even approaching how Javert felt was laughable. Friendship, maybe (though that was still undeserved), or a mere extension of his ridiculous saintly compassion for all humanity, but no more.

And if Valjean had heard the remark, Javert doubted even a friendship could be possible between them— no, the closest thing to a positive sentiment held towards him by the man would be _pity_ , the pity bestowed to a poor hopeless wretch, nothing more— and that was if he was not shunned entirely.

But Javert had even further subject of unease from the prior events, for not only had Grantaire’s initial comment possibly informed Valjean of the extent of Javert’s _utterly pathetic_ state, but his later remark had critically exacerbated Javert’s failure to convince Valjean of his stability.

It was true that Javert was far from fine. But that was irrelevant. He could not allow Valjean to sacrifice his own well-being worrying over Javert’s— especially _here_. It was not as if Javert could get any _deader_ — and given this, his state of mind was of no material consequence, and thus, no true consequence at all to anyone but himself. As the underlying reason of securing his continued survival had been rendered irrelevant, to burden anyone else with his problems would only inconvenience the ‘anyone else’ in question— and it would be nothing but _selfish_ , nay, _cruel_ of him to demand this emotional support from _Valjean_ , the man who had spent half his life living in fear of Javert!

Yes, Javert wished Valjean could know the truth— the truth about a lot of things. But it was only in an entirely different world that such a thing could have a positive effect.

***

Valjean paced the room, pondering the significance of the comment, and the way the boy’s later remarks (as well as Javert’s actions) had corroborated the implication. Could it genuinely have meant that Javert— but no, he was _quite_ sure such sentiments were some sort of sin, and the former policeman was in Heaven, so he must have misunderstood.

Perhaps some sort of bizarre inside joke— yes, that could be it; he was not _fully_ sure whether the truth aligned closer to the boys’ treatment of Javert as their friend or Javert’s assertions to the contrary, but in any case, they had undeniably interacted, so inside jokes may have formed. 

Or perhaps what was meant was that Javert wanted to be Valjean’s friend? Did people use ‘pining’ to refer to platonic desire? He was not sure. In life, Valjean had never really been close to anyone who he did not consider family— he had no experience with romance, and almost as little with close friendship. Back in Faverolles, he had always been first and foremost occupied with work to support his family; the cruelty of Toulon had turned his heart to stone; and after he broke parole, he could never afford to truly trust anyone, lest he risk the discovery of his true identity and thereby endanger those who relied upon him (first the people of Montreuil, then Cosette). 

To be sure, Valjean _would_ wish to befriend Javert if allowed such a thing; Valjean could not in good faith refuse forgiveness and kindness to any troubled soul, and Javert had never been an exception to that. And if friendly intent was all that was signified, Valjean would have no qualms satisfying that. 

But before the thoughts of this possibility could be fully-formed, his mind stumbled upon another possibility, entirely compatible with how his religious knowledge ruled out a literal interpretation, while still compliant to all the other evidence. 

The possibility that the remark had been entirely in jest— and that, in truth, Javert genuinely disliked Valjean, and did not wish to interact with him.

Valjean sat down on the couch, facing the unlit fireplace, as he considered the evidence. Javert’s absence at Valjean’s welcome; his little signs of discomfort at Valjean’s presence; his strange, halting tone in much of their conversation— indeed, his embarrassment at Grantaire’s remark could have been rooted in the worry that Valjean would miss the sarcasm! Which he almost _had_ done…

Valjean felt foolish that he had not entertained this possibility before, even as his heart sank to consider it. It would be entirely reasonable for Javert to hate him, Valjean thought. Indeed, not only had he assumed the other man was not present in Heaven, and pried into his personal issues— _Valjean was the reason Javert was dead._

Though Javert’s presence in Heaven made this fact’s implications significantly less dire than Valjean had earlier thought, it was still a fact— and a terrible one, that weighed upon his conscience like a boulder. In allowing Javert to die, Valjean had actively refrained from saving a person whom he had every means to save. It was terrible enough to fail at one’s attempt to save another (Valjean still could not shake the lingering guilt from the knowledge that all seven of his sister’s children were— _here_ )—but to not even _try—!_ If he had saved Javert, perhaps a second chance in life for the Inspector could have been possible— a chance for Javert to find true redemption, to live a life in a world of truth rather than through lenses of lies, to do good in the world— and— perhaps even to grow closer with Valjean…

But now, Valjean might never know, for this had not been the case. They were on the same plane of existence, so it was _technically_ possible for Valjean to provide Javert support— but would Javert _want_ contact with the man responsible for his death? 

And yet at the same moment, Javert seemed so lonely as he was— and if this impression was correct, Valjean’s instinct suggested a belated offer of aid would be better than none. But if he tried to do this, and merely made the other man uncomfortable— that may do more harm than good.

Valjean found himself caught between two options. Should he check on Javert, ensure the troubled Inspector’s safety? Or should he avoid Javert, keep himself away from this man who would have every reason to want him at a distance? He contemplated this dilemma.

***

“Hey there Inspector! Lookin’, uh… contemplative there…”

Javert didn’t have to turn to know that the voice approaching him from one end of the bridge was that of Grantaire.

“Oh, fuck off, R, you know about the invisible barrier just as well as I do. Even if ghosts _could_ die, _this_ wouldn’t work.”

“Ha, yeah,” Grantaire snorted. He walked over and sat on the same parapet, half a metre or so of space between him and Javert. For a while, they watched the sky in silence. 

Having Grantaire beside him on this parapet was far from an unfamiliar experience for Javert. Though one would initially think their lives on Earth irreconcilably different, the truth was that they had a surprising amount in common— both in certain aspects of their personal lives, and in their preferred styles of emotional expression. Both these things were also true for a few others of the barricade group— but none to such an extent as Grantaire. After a mutual understanding of this fact formed, Javert found himself interacting with Grantaire more often than anyone else— with Grantaire, he knew both that he could speak his mind unfiltered without having to worry about causing either pity or lasting offence (and expect the same refreshing bluntness in return), and that constructive advice could be meaningfully exchanged if one of them was in need (even when the general tone of their relationship, and both of their tendencies to lash out, could blur the distinction between ‘advice session’ and ‘argument’). 

While Javert balked at calling any of the rebels his ‘friends’, he could not deny that, if such a label had been accurate, the adjective ‘best’ would apply to Grantaire. 

Before the narrative may proceed, allow the following to be disclosed; if one is to understand the Grantaire of this moment, one must understand how vastly he differed visually from his living self, and the steps in which this change had been allowed by the systems of Heaven.

On Earth, Grantaire had been… ugly. It would not have been very productive to bother with much further physical description of him then. To specify his dark hair, or his round nose, or his short and stocky frame, might risk an implication that those traits had causal connection to the aforementioned ugliness— when in truth, all specific details of Grantaire’s appearance faded to irrelevance when combined with such an enormous buildup of misery and bad habits as the man had formed over his life. 

(Ugliness is very rarely inherent— far more often, it is the product of misery, of dark thoughts or wretched circumstances or a combination thereof. The strangest features can form a charming face when their bearer is cheerful, and a perfect facsimile of the Vitruvian man can be made hideous by a wretched life. The Heavenly link between one’s appearance and the state of one’s soul is merely a more literal reflection of this Earthly fact.)

When Javert first met him in Heaven, Grantaire was still recognisably close to the same disaster of a man he had been in life. Though the alcohol in his system at time of death and some of his poor hygiene had been classed along with the gunshot wounds and any existing scars as _superficial damage_ (the category of non-inherent traits removed by default from the arrival form), many of the long-term effects of his lifestyle were classed with _health traits_ (the category that can only be removed or made optional by becoming emotionally healthy). A percentage of Grantaire’s issues had been remedied by receptionist clarification before the Amis even proceeded to their Corner, but some of them needed time— and as Javert had died mere hours after the barricade fell, and those hours had been even further shortened in the timeline of the Amis’ Corner (which, by the way, did indeed have proximity to Javert’s— but this was primarily due to the frequent use of their connecting portals over the year, rather than any inherent factors), Grantaire had most certainly _not_ resolved all of his emotional issues by the first time Javert saw him in Heaven. 

But when he did manage to do so, when personal growth and cathartic communication with relevant souls allowed Grantaire to become unburdened by the misery that had plagued him, and he properly gained control over his form, Javert barely recognised him upon their next meeting. 

His bird’s nest of hair was now much neater, his ridiculous goatee (which he had grown on Earth out of either terrible decisions, lack of motivation to shave, or a mixture of the two) was now replaced by a flattering shadow of stubble, the dark circles under his eyes were gone, and he stood with far better posture than before. While there was little _aging_ to reverse, as Grantaire had lived only 29 years, the toll Grantaire’s lifestyle and misery had taken upon him had been entirely removed from his form. 

If Javert was being honest, he only knew Grantaire was the same man by the fact that he was still wearing _that hideous striped waistcoat_ , as Javert had dubbed it. Even though fully realised ghosts have just as much control over their clothing as the rest of their form, Grantaire had chosen to keep the same ( _ridiculous_ , in Javert’s opinion) pink-and-green outfit from his arrival form, and continued to wear it the vast majority of the time— including, as it happened, during this interaction on the parapet. According to Grantaire, others (including Enjolras) were not opposed to this choice, but Javert had never been successfully convinced of this. 

Now that this explanation is complete, the scene may continue.

After long minutes of stargazing, Grantaire looked over at Javert. “I was only trying to help back there, you know,” he said, his voice unusually earnest.

“Help? What, by ruining my chances of even becoming friends with him by making it weird right away? ‘Hey world, Javert’s a pathetic queer with no ambition!’ Yeah, that’s totally gonna make him fall for me.” Javert, having finished this instance of lashing out, crossed his arms.

Grantaire didn’t know where to start. “Javert, how— that’s not what I— this is fucking _Heaven_ , Javert, if there’s anywhere it’s okay to not keep lies up it’s here.” 

“And the ‘ooh, what are you hiding’ comment? While I was already failing to convince him he shouldn’t worry about me? How was _that_ ‘helping’?”

Grantaire opened his mouth, then finding no defense to make, closed it again. “Okay, yeah, that one’s on me. I guess I thought it would be funny or something…? But look, you literally have no reason to hide how you feel about him!”

“Easy for you to say; you _got_ your pretty boy.”

“Javert. Shut the fuck up and picture this. A human disaster, sitting around, hating himself and everything because he thinks his angelic light-haired crush will never feel the same way. Now am I talking about me, barely a year ago… or you, right now? Seriously, if Enjolras can love me, Valjean can love you.”

“But you’re…” Javert made a vague gesture, “different, or something, though? Look, I know for a fact that he’ll never like me back.”

“Look, dude, I thought that exactly too. Stop acting like you’re some sort of hopeless case; the _difference_ is that Enjolras and I died at the same time, got the same receptionist, who had no time for our bullshit and got the truth out immediately so we could figure it out _way_ quicker— and yeah, look at me now! But your Jean, on the other hand, died a year after you and got the new trainee tour guide system— shit, that program’s so inefficient right now that he might not have even been told yet that liking men while being one isn’t a sin!” 

Javert didn’t seem convinced, so Grantaire continued. “Just spend time with him, scope out the situation, and— look, I _bet_ you that what you’re saying is bullshit; if it turns out not to be then you win, and if it turns out to be,” Grantaire shot Javert a suggestive look before continuing, “so there’s an incentive to find out for sure either way!” 

Making bets was a fairly common pastime among ghosts; though there was no currency to wager, and infinite supply for any given type of goods, bragging rights were good enough stakes for most when there was an eternity to brag. And, as Grantaire knew, Javert had never been one to make a claim in anything other than idleness without first obtaining proof. 

Javert seemed to consider it. “Hmm…”

“Well, I’ll be here for as long as you need.”

***

Valjean’s spiral of worry was interrupted by a voice from somewhere behind him— a pleasant, feminine voice, but one that was definitely not Fantine. “Hope you’re settling into your new home, Jean Valjean! Would you like to properly define its connection to you now?” He turned to see its source— a translucent orb of green light near his front door.

He saw no reason _not_ to do what the voice had suggested— indeed, he reasoned it may provide some useful distraction from these thoughts— so he stood from the couch and walked over to the orb.

The orb spread into a sheet of light. First, it offered him the option to soul-bond the home, which he accepted— this house was where he expected to spend his eternity, after all, and Fantine had mentioned that most people soul-bonded their homes. 

Then, it prompted him to name the home; he left it as the default ‘Jean Valjean’s House’. He paused for a moment to reflect on this idea, that hadn’t fully sunk in until that moment: that he finally owned his name again after more than half a lifetime going by other monikers, either forcibly inflicted or self-imposed— that now he was finally seeing and hearing his true name everywhere, not as an accusation or a postscript to a number, but as his _name_ , and it felt so strange and unfamiliar but unprecedentedly _right_. 

The next screen it showed after he set the name asked, ‘Would you like this home to notify you of visitors?’. Valjean supposed this must have been what Combeferre had used to hear of his chess club’s arrival. When he pressed ‘yes’, he was met with a preview of a simple screen reading ‘Someone is at your door’, and an overwhelming array of options filling the other side of the screen under the heading ‘Customise’. A button at the bottom read ‘Confirm Notification’.

As Valjean considered this multitude of optional features, he noticed that outside the window, the sun was setting. Though Fantine had said it was optional, he supposed that he may as well sleep— he _was_ curious how it would feel to sleep in Heaven, and it would do no harm if he were to postpone customising the notification to another time. 

After pressing ‘Confirm Notification’, Valjean went back upstairs to his room, and began to undress. He removed his shoes, then shucked off his coat and placed it over the back of the chair. When he untied his cravat, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror— and saw in the day’s last light that his neck was no longer circled by the ring of scarred flesh that had marked it for nearly all his adult life. As soon as he consciously acknowledged this absence, it half-returned, almost as if Heaven was asking ‘ _would_ you wish to keep this mark?’— but he shook his head an emphatic no, and it was gone again; he breathed a sigh of relief. He was curious now, so he removed his shirt entirely— and saw that all his other scars were gone too. Those on his chest, his arms, the lash-marks that had covered his back, the brand that had marked him as a convict— he hiked up a trouser, the scar around his ankle from the chain too— _all_ were gone.

He smiled, and this was the third time tears had come to his eyes this first day in Heaven, but he could not help himself. 

 

When he slept, it was the best he had experienced in decades; he found it extraordinarily easy to fall asleep, and no nightmares marred his rest— both unfamiliar things for him. He woke in the morning to find himself entirely refreshed, with only a slight tinge of apprehension remaining from his prior consideration of certain events. 

Valjean decided to, before anything else, explore the garden that had formed along with his house. 

An indeterminate amount of time passed as Valjean tended to this garden. The sun reached a mid-morning height, but that was purely aesthetic; there was no way to truly tell how many hours had passed for Valjean— or, indeed, whether this passage of time was of the same magnitude in other regions of Heaven.

It was at this point that Valjean decided to follow the portal Grantaire had left. It was the only persistent portal in his Corner so far, and he did not know any addresses as far as he knew, so other modes of transport to exit the Corner were null and void. He supposed, if nothing else, the journey would allow him to acquire addresses of other Corners to establish persistent portals as Fantine had suggested.

When he reached the portal, he noticed a second had been formed beside it; the plaque on it read “Trainee Offices” with smaller text below it— first, a string of letters and numbers that seemed to share a format with the thing Fantine had muttered to direct the corridors the previous day (he supposed this must be what an ‘address’ is), followed with the specification “office L751399: Fantine (1796-1823)”. He wondered why she had not directed the portal to her own Corner, but perhaps she just spent more time in official spaces. 

He then decided to himself that she may be busy, so continued with his original plan to visit the Amis’ Corner (in the seconds before he entered that portal, he noticed that its plaque also had an address noted below the name).

Valjean exited the portal and found himself surrounded by at least twenty other portals, all of different colour themes. 

He found the nearest resident, and asked him how one is to go about acquiring addresses to others’ Corners. The boy first sought to impress upon Valjean that Fantine was where he ought to go with queries about details of Heaven— after all, she was his assigned guide. But, seeing no reason to not be helpful, he then explained to Valjean that it is possible to use one’s ‘networking orb’ (apparently the consensus for the name of the shape-changing mote of light present in Valjean’s office) to look up addresses of the Corners occupied by souls one knows— and moreover, to discover events that may be to one’s interest even if their hosts are otherwise unknown to the searcher. In addition, he noted that Valjean is welcome to copy down addresses from other portals in the hub zone, and recommended that in particular, Valjean should acquire the address of a man named ‘Mabeuf’, as he seemed to believe this man and Valjean would be highly compatible friends.

On the way back towards the hub zone, Valjean had a chance encounter with another one of the Corner’s residents.

“You’re… Enjolras, right?” Valjean supposed he must get used to knowing the boys’ names; Enjolras was one of the ones he was least unsure about, but it was still worth checking.

Enjolras nodded. “If you’re asking after Grantaire, with what he said yesterday— he’s not at our place right now, or actually in the Corner at all, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Valjean questioned Enjolras’ phrasing. “…‘Our place’? Does the whole group live in the one home?”

“…Not really? I mean, sharing a place would actually be kind of cool, now that you mention the idea— but no, there are multiple inhabited homes in this Corner; for the most part, it’s just couples that share.”

Valjean tilted his head quizzically. Had he misheard? 

For a moment, Enjolras did not understand Valjean’s expression. “What’s there to be confused about—?” But before the question could be answered, he realised of his own devices. “...Oh, do you actually still think—” he abruptly stopped to let out a snort of laughter, before beginning to explain. “Well, no; I _did_ mean _couples_ couples— because the idea that God only approves of man-woman romance is completely false. That was one of the first misconceptions our receptionist cleared up, actually; the whole premise was apparently a mix of bizarre mistranslation and entirely unofficial ideas. None of us were _particularly_ religious in life, so we didn’t ask as many follow-up questions as you might like answers to, but it was still a good thing to have cleared up— quite a relief for more than half of us, actually. Anyway, were you going to say something?”

Valjean did not, in fact, have anything approaching a sentence constructed that could serve as a reaction to this new knowledge. But before he could react in the slightest, he received a notification from his soul-bonded home. 

“Excuse me, someone is at my door,” Valjean said. There was a translucent green display before him, providing this information— but that was all it said; he could not see whatever button Combeferre had used to view the names. Perhaps the inclusion of that had been one of the settings he had refrained from considering. 

“Well, I won’t keep you from them. Suppose I’ll talk to you later, then.”

Valjean tried to follow the notification, though he wasn’t exactly sure how it worked— and then he was inside his house, right by the door. 

He opened the door, and saw Javert standing there.

***

There. Now Javert would be able to ‘scope out the situation’ as Grantaire had phrased it— to begin to gather evidence to get this bet settled, one way or the other. Grantaire had forced his hand by setting that bet— Javert could not in good faith wager that he ‘knew’ something was the case without material evidence, even something so obvious as Valjean’s lack of romantic feelings for him. (And, though Javert had not fully admitted this to himself, there was a part of him that truly did want to spend time with Valjean, even if friendship was the furthest it could possibly go.)

Valjean opened the door— and tilted his head slightly when he saw Javert. “Hello…?”

Oh. Valjean would have no idea why Javert would be visiting him. Javert had not thought this through well enough to prepare an explanation for this. 

He stumbled over his words. “Um, well, so. My behaviour was. Strange. Yesterday. So I thought, perhaps… we could go for a walk? Maybe through the forest, since you have one of those here?” A pause. “…If you do not want to—”

Valjean’s shoulders relaxed slightly— though his brow was still slightly furrowed— and he answered. “No… that would be nice.”

 

Soon, Javert and Valjean were walking side by side through an idyllic forest that had built itself in Valjean’s Corner. Javert found himself thinking that it was, indeed, _nice_. Javert’s Corner had little nature, besides the parks, and it was never daytime there, so this was a pleasant change.

Javert knew that he must at _some_ point raise the topic at hand to prove the betting claim one way or the other, but he was not about to confront that _yet_. He told himself that it was an act of pragmatism— he must become somewhat closer with Valjean first, must passively determine whether Valjean had heard Grantaire’s remark already; after all, if he could win or lose this bet right off the bat, there would be no need to embarrass himself further. 

This choice having been made, Javert spoke of other things. It proved less easy to think of topics than he had expected.

“...So, being new, hm? How has it been so far?”

“To be entirely honest… a little strange.—Then again, I suppose such is to be expected, with how different Heaven is from Earth, so,” Valjean shrugged, ending the utterance there.

Javert had nothing further to say. There was silence.

***

Valjean wanted to kick himself. What kind of a response was that?! 

Still, it seemed to be the case that Javert did not hate Valjean; one would not expect a person to choose to visit their enemy. But Valjean could not bring up such possibilities (or their premises) yet, lest it prompt that thus-absent disdain to emerge.

***

Time passed, and Javert made another attempt at small talk. “This is a nice Corner.”

“Indeed it is, I suppose. What is yours like? I’ve— seen a little of it, but not much, so.”

“It is… suited to my tastes, I suppose, but can be a little dull at times. It does not have scenery like this.”

“How do you like your house?”

Javert sighed internally; this was a topic bound to raise questions or pity, but he would not tell a lie; this was a principle that had not always been of material advantage in life, but it remained one he would not violate. “...I’ve not really a proper home in my Corner; I mostly spend my time outdoors looking at the stars.”

“…I see.”

Again, there was silence. 

 

This time, Valjean spoke first. “How has the year been for you?”

“...Uneventful. Other than watching the sky, didn’t really do much.” This answer was not far from the truth.

“What of the boys? You seemed to know each other.”

“As I said before, they are not my friends. I don’t have… _friends_.” Javert may be dodging one question, but he was answering the _real_ one, the one he was sure Valjean really meant. He immediately regretted giving Valjean more cause for pity the moment he said the words, but what was done was done, and to say anything else would have been to thoroughly contradict his earlier statements.

Valjean nodded slowly. Yet again, there was silence. An awkward, heavy silence; one could cut it with a knife.

***

Hmm. This was all… somewhat concerning, Valjean thought. If Javert could be believed, he must need some serious support— homeless, friendless stargazing could not be a very fulfilling way to spend one’s eternity.

But thoughts of Javert’s wellbeing were not the only thoughts on Valjean’s mind— the guilt of his own earlier assumptions (and his connection to Javert’s death— but that was a whole other, _far_ bigger issue) still afflicted his soul, and he could not help but want to let out at least a little of it…

***

Long minutes passed. Javert’s plans to refrain from discussing _earlier_ in this conversation had been unmistakably reinforced by this point in the conversation— after all, he had already given plenty of cause for pity in the truths he had carelessly revealed, so to guarantee even more through such a wretched admission without even trying to become closer would be a surefire way to lose all his respectability too soon to gain any useful information. Javert was almost planning to make his exit now, so that any _opinions_ formed of him by Valjean could temper before he tried again. But this time, again, Valjean initiated the conversation— with a topic that had not been planned for.

“I still feel… bad that I thought you weren’t here. …Especially given—”

Javert shook his head dismissively, interrupting Valjean perhaps a little too hastily. “Really, please do not dwell on that misunderstanding. Even I thought I’d end up somewhere else… hoped so, even…”

That last part was under his breath, spoken without thought, but it seemed Valjean still heard it. He stopped abruptly, turned to face Javert, and gently rested his hands around Javert’s waist (apparently without giving any real thought to the action) as he looked up into Javert’s eyes with a genuinely concerned and saddened expression. “Javert… you really…”

Javert, possibly more flustered than he’d ever allowed himself to admit, stumbled over his words. “Uh—I—please do not worry about me, don’t—do you forget where we are? I mean, it’s not like a ghost can—look—I—truly, Valjean, I’m better now.” This final half-truth that tumbled from Javert’s mouth seemed to reassure Valjean more than any of the other things he had said, but Valjean was still looking up at him with those big brown eyes and vague concern on his face and Javert was _most certainly not_ going to be capable of thought processes anywhere _near_ complex enough to convincingly pretend at being fully recovered for the rest of a conversation—

Javert stumbled back a step. “Well. I must go now. Goodbye.” He began to walk briskly in a random direction, intending to summon a portal back to his Corner at the first opportunity. 

“Wait.”

Javert stopped in his tracks.

“Would you like to live with me? —I mean, that is to say, you said you have no friends, and no permanent place of residence in your Corner either, and I— my house was generated with a spare bedroom, so perhaps…” Valjean trailed off, but his point was made.

Javert would have refused the offer, had he been in possession of enough of his wits to project his usual façade of belligerence and isolation, the same one that constantly led him to deny the word ‘friendship’ regarding the boys. But it just so happened that the prior moment had stripped away this layer of Javert, and for a moment he did not care one bit if Valjean’s intention in providing this opportunity was completely platonic, or even based in impersonal pity. He only cared that this opportunity was _here_.

Javert nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is ridiculously easy to write angst of these self obstructive depressed idiots oh my god.
> 
> Obvious potential for E/R prequel is obvious, but I probably won't ever write it myself.
> 
> Minor clarifications:  
> \- In case it's not obvious enough, the Grantaire outfit I described is the Broadway/25a costume; I just can't picture Grantaire in anything else. I mean it’s just so _ugly_ and so _garish_ and so... _him_ and it will never not be my headcanon.  
> \- [This](https://imgur.com/xjF0fkI) is a sketch of the chess club teleport group pose. Note that this sketch only seeks to clarify the aspects of the pose that I described in the text— the relative heights of the stickmen don't necessarily correlate to my Ami relative-height headcanons, and the actual pose would probably be way more dramatic than this.  
> \- I've done sketches of the floor plan of Valjean's house if anyone wants to see what I intended, but they're just messy pencil sketches because I have nowhere near enough of a sense of scale to use a proper floor plan tool.


	3. Even the Darkest Night Will End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I made a lot of oneshots in the interval between last chapter and now, but I actually published this almost a month sooner than I expected to!
> 
> You will now see what I meant by “fast paced slow burn”. This pacing is the logical consequence of combining this ship’s inability to burn fast with my unwillingness to drag UST and mutual pining out any longer than strictly necessary. If I was more confident in my abilities as a writer (and had more chapter title ideas), this chapter's events would _definitely_ be split, maybe even into more than two parts, but as it stands, I did what I did, and I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to onegaymore for beta and cheerleading!

Valjean was almost done showing Javert around the house.

“And this would be your room.”

“Hm, its aesthetic already seems to fit me.”

“…I suppose it does.”

“Though, I hope you will not take offence if I do not spend much time in it. I would prefer to visit my Corner quite often, so,” he shrugged.

Valjean nodded. “Of course; I understand; there would be little point in you having created that portal if you were not to use it. Anyway— if you need anything, just ask, alright?”

Javert barely suppressed a snort at the phrasing. Valjean shot him a confused glance.

“Ah, sorry, it’s nothing, I— my mind was elsewhere.”

Valjean was willing to drop the matter. “So, are we settled?”

“I suppose.”

***

Valjean was by no means an expert on things that did or didn’t indicate an absence of hatred. However, he was fairly certain that accepting a (purely impulsive) invitation to share a home fell into the former category. So, the feeling harboured by Javert, the one that the comment by the boy had referenced, was either the second option Valjean had considered— desire for friendship— or…

Valjean suddenly made a logical connection he had missed before. 

Enjolras had contradicted Valjean’s assumption that it was a sin for one man to have certain desires toward another. 

Which meant the literal interpretation of the remark, the one Valjean had initially ruled out, was no longer impossible.

But Valjean did not allow himself to follow this train of thought any further. 

Instead, he reasoned that the “desire for friendship” possibility was not to be ruled out, even if a literal interpretation was not impossible. After all, Valjean was fully capable of providing friendship for Javert, he knew _that_ as a fact. And if friendship _was_ what Javert wanted, but Valjean raised the possibility of Javert having romantic feelings for Valjean, it could only make everything awkward between them. 

So, Valjean decided that he would assume Javert’s feelings platonic until proven otherwise.

***

This change in circumstances had not been part of Javert’s plan at all, but he would try to roll with it; there was no going back now.

Javert’s thought process was that he could not embarrass himself to Grantaire. There was an assumption firmly rooted in his mind that the young man had likely already heard news of the move; if Javert backed out of this decision he had made in a moment of weakness, his best f— ahem— _the only person he talked to_ , yes, that was what Grantaire was— would know Javert was a fool.

(It should be noted that this assumption was made not based on any real logic, but specifically and solely in order to justify the foregone conclusion that Javert should not go back on this decision to live with Valjean.)

But despite this change in circumstance, Javert would try to change as little of his plan as possible. And in his plan, he had planned to continue to ‘scope’ as Grantaire had put it, to refrain from confessing his feelings until he had collected as much information as possible.

So, Javert decided he would conceal his true feelings until he saw the situation to be truly right.

***

And such this arrangement— this dance— began. 

Javert and Valjean quickly settled into something that was almost domesticity, and Javert was all the more helpless for it. Still, while they ate meals together (Valjean had convinced Javert to make a habit of eating often, even though it was not physically necessary here), often conversed about trivial matters, and occasionally attended the same third-party events, much of their time was spent separately. Valjean would be gardening, or visiting friends; Javert would be visiting his own Corner, or speaking with people he knew but hesitated to refer to as friends. Conversations of any importance were usually painfully awkward for both parties; the mutual understanding of this, combined with their feedback loop of inactivity, significantly delayed progress in their connection.

As we all know very well, time is difficult to exactly enumerate in Heaven; as such, one cannot say with certainty how much time elapsed in Javert’s or Valjean’s perception between key events. However, an attempt will be made to mark the passage of time.

***

_July, 1833— approximately one month after the arrangement began. Valjean._

Javert and Valjean were both present at the same event in another Corner. The event was beginning to end when Valjean received a notification of a visitor at his home, which provided a convenient exit. He announced it to the other attendees, and was about to follow it, when Javert (who happened to be nearby) noticed the content of the notification— or rather, its lack of content.

“Have you really spent all this time with such an uninformative visitor notification? Not even the visitors’ names?”

“I… never particularly considered to change it. Too many options,” he explained. 

“Well, I will _help_ you change it, then, after you’re done with whoever this is; nobody should have their notification like this.”

Valjean did not attempt to argue; the help was, in fact, quite welcome. Javert tentatively placed a hand on Valjean’s arm, and Valjean teleported home.

The visitor was M. Mabeuf, with whom Valjean had developed something of a friendship in the past few weeks. The boy’s recommendation that Valjean meet him had not been forgotten, and now, the two men regularly met (at either of their residences) to discuss their mutual enjoyment of gardening, and share discoveries regarding the nature and manipulation of Heavenly flora. 

The conversation was interesting as always. The progress of Valjean’s strawberries was mentioned, and Mabeuf gave the address of a Corner belonging to some fellow who lived in the fourteenth century on the other side of the world— apparently, this man was someone Mabeuf had recently met by happenstance, and his Corner contained several exotic and possibly extinct varieties of tree. Valjean made a note to visit the address sometime.

During the conversation, Javert was upstairs. Presumably, Javert was occupying himself on the blue networking orb that had sprung up on the desk beside Valjean’s green one when Javert moved in; Valjean was vaguely aware that those could be used for games and communication.

When the visit of Mabeuf concluded, Valjean called for Javert, who soon descended. The two men set upon the task of updating Valjean’s notification.

“Now, here’s the name and lifespan option,” Javert indicated one of the boxes in the list. Valjean reached to it— and for a moment, their hands brushed— but if Valjean was indeed aware at all of way his heart fluttered in that moment, he entirely ignored it. Valjean dragged the box over to the other side of the screen. 

After this, the process was generally unremarkable; a few more options were explained and either dismissed or added, and the notification was saved. 

“How do you know how this works, by the way? If you did not have a house in your Corner…”

“That is actually quite a good question. Well— there were a few places where I spent enough time that the option to soul-bond presented itself, and I supposed it might be useful to know when someone had come to see me, so.” Javert shrugged. Valjean nodded.

When Javert left on his usual visit to his Corner that night, Valjean missed him slightly more than usual, for reasons yet unknown.

***

_August, 1833. Javert._

It was a morning. Javert had just returned from his nightly visit to his Corner, and Valjean had just left to visit Jeanne and her family. The orb announced Grantaire’s intent to visit. Ah, so today was one of those times the boy decided to visit Javert at the house to check on him, instead of talking on the parapet or inviting him to something. Very well, then.

Javert preemptively pulled up his portable messaging screen and messaged Valjean, ‘ _for me, no need to come back’_ , as he always did in these occasions— after all, if Valjean teleported back from the notification, it would _entirely_ defeat the purpose of Javert’s conversation with Grantaire. It had been unbearably awkward the one time that had happened, and Javert had no intent of allowing it to happen again.

Grantaire arrived with his usual lack of decorum, and the two men sat to converse in the living room. Grantaire’s pose as he sat could not possibly be comfortable, but from everything Javert had observed, it seemed Grantaire had never been capable of sitting normally on a chair.

“Any progress on the case, Inspector?” Grantaire asked, in an affected voice that seemed to be some sort of blundered attempt at mockery.

“First off, I’m pretty sure nobody in the police has ever talked like that. Second… no.”

Grantaire dropped the act. “Okay. Any progress on recognising the fact that _he fucking asked you to live with him_?— like, don’t call me an expert, but I’m pretty sure _moving in with someone_ is usually a pretty hallmark sign—”

“Stop. We’ve been over this. It was out of pity, and I accepted so I could gather information. I will not admit defeat based on your circumstantial evidence.”

“God, you make this whole thing sound so clinical.”

“You’re the one who proposed it be a _bet_.”

Grantaire could not plead ignorance; he knew _exactly_ what a bet with Javert entailed. “…Right. But when are you gonna tell him? I mean, it’s been— how long—?”

“ _I_ am going to stick to my _plan_. And my _plan_ does not involve embarrassing myself yet. You said to ‘scope it out’, and that is what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t mean for _months!_ But whatever, do it your way if that’s what you think will work. Anyway, I have something on with the others, wanna come?”

“No.”

“Well, suit yourself. See you next time, then.”

***

_September, 1833. Valjean._

Roast supper. Javert seemed to be quite enjoying his meal. Perhaps Valjean had finally mastered the art of summoning meat— in Heaven, animal death was not required to cook with meat, and Valjean was grateful for this fact, so it was the one ingredient for which Valjean had never attempted to use an Earth-mimicking source. (Of course, the products had been _edible_ from the start, and judging by Javert’s feedback, Valjean had perfected the skill weeks ago, but one can never stop trying to improve.)

Valjean smiled and took a bite of his own portion. Hmm, perhaps he could make it a little leaner next time. Well, Javert was certainly not complaining; he was eating practically ravenously. Valjean continued to eat, silently noting mild criticism of every morsel, and then, Javert finished his meal. Javert summoned a napkin, wiped his mouth, and spoke.

“God, Valjean, that was _perfect_.” 

Valjean smiled—something about the tone of the compliment had caught him strangely off-guard, but he could not quite identify the nature of the spark within him that it lit. He thought of a topic he had yet to raise this evening. “Any news from the group?”

Javert understood to whom Valjean was referring. “Ah, well, Grantaire’s cousin Antoine arrived yesterday; according to him, the month becoming September is the most eventful thing that has happened recently. Other than that, not much else— well, I would recount the events of Antoine’s death, but they are _really_ not as amusing as Grantaire built them up to be.”

“I see,” Valjean nodded. In recent times, Valjean had deduced that Grantaire was likely Javert’s friend— while Javert denied the label, Valjean’s observations pointed directly to it. Valjean had not mentioned this, as he did not wish to begin an argument with Javert, but it was something he knew.

Abruptly—jolting Valjean back to reality— Javert stood up. “Well, I should go; thank you for the meal.” He exited the building, and there was soon the telltale sound of somebody passing through a portal. Valjean sighed. He did not want to push boundaries, but did wish he could spend more time with his friend.

Wait… _was_ what Valjean felt merely friendship?

***

_Javert._

Javert sat on his parapet, contemplating the stars. It was something he had done innumerable times, but he suddenly realised something different about it now. Before, it had never felt… cold. There had never been any particular sensation of temperature before at all, but somehow now, Javert felt himself wishing there was a warmth beside him. 

…No, not just any warmth— Valjean.

Of course, there had always been loneliness, longing, somewhere in his mind when he sat here. But it had never been this unshakeable before, and had very rarely taken the form of _wishes_. He’d always been able to trace the constellations and forget the truth, to dismiss thoughts like the one he just had as impossible or ridiculous. But now, he could not.

Javert _knew_ , logically, that the thought of Valjean beside him here was _still_ impossible, _still_ ridiculous. That he did not deserve it. But now, he found himself unable to shake the dream.

***

_Valjean._

It was certain that Valjean had never felt _this_ before— this emotion all so suddenly swelling in his heart, and unmistakably directed at Javert— could it be… 

But— what if Javert merely wanted friendship— how could Valjean impose further on Javert? He had set about the Inspector’s death— and he had already been seemingly forgiven far too much of it— oh God, if he was to suddenly request—

Valjean tried to set this aside. Regardless of whether such sentiments could be ever reciprocated— or— forgiven— were they what he felt? He tried to think. The boy had said it was not sinful to feel that way, so of course it was a possibility in theory— but— could this really be— 

No, Valjean decided to himself. He was not in love with Javert. This could only be him overthinking the fact that such sentiments were not a sin. Indeed, this feeling’s lack of known precedent could just as likely indicate it to be close friendship. And that was the best Valjean deserved, in any case.

(Still, this decision did not feel entirely satisfactory.)

***

_November, 1833. Valjean._

One day, Valjean was sat in his living room with Fantine, clarifying details of Heaven he had not thought to mention yet. Then, he asked a question— one of which the reader will certainly understand the true meaning. 

“Why is everything still so complicated?”

Fantine requested clarification.

“I mean— so much about Heaven is better than I could have ever imagined, and yet… I’m still practically in my arrival form, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do to change that. If this is truly Heaven, why doesn’t some angel just come and tell me what I need to do?”

Fantine raised an eyebrow— but answered. “It’s just… kind of how things work around here; people are supposed to work out their own issues, helped by each other. As to why, I can’t be any more sure of that than you can; upper management never directly states these things. Some leading theories are,” Fantine began to count off her fingers, “that humans need challenge for happiness to be satisfying and meaningful, that angels and other management beings are incapable of interfering too much with human business, or… that whoever’s in charge,” she gestured vaguely upward, “just really loves watching drama play out. Latter would also explain why Earth is like it is. But regardless, it’s a fact that things here _do_ tend to eventually work out, more so than on Earth, no matter how much complication happens in the middle. I took a while to work out my issues, but I _did_ , and you will too.”

“...Can you tell me how you did it? I still know very little about your— well, I suppose ‘life’ is not the right word— about your journey since we last met on Earth.”

“I don’t see why not. So, the process began for me when I joined a group of souls who’d gone through similar things in their lives as I did in mine. They helped me accept certain facts that I had been trying far too hard to deny— like that Félix was never a good person.”

“Félix?”

Fantine looked away. “…I thought I loved him. Then Cosette was born. And he left.”

“…Oh.” Valjean now understood more of everything than he did before.

Fantine moved on swiftly from that. “After I understood my life, one of my friends mentioned traineeship as an option, that it had helped her make peace with everything— so I signed up. And it was good, to have a purpose that warmed the soul. That’s when I fully found my health again; this was in… ‘27 or so, I think.”

“I see.”

“You must remember that for every soul who arrives here— there _is_ a path for them to reach their happiness. The main thing is to find your truth— figure out what it is that _would_ make you happy— and then, to pursue it.”

Valjean nodded slowly. 

***

_December, 1833. Javert._

Supper was even more awkward than usual. Oh, the food was absolutely perfect, that was a non-issue— but everything else about the event seemed to be set up specifically to fluster Javert. 

For one, Valjean had attended an athletic event that day, in a location that ambiently imposed somewhat-Earth-like restrictions on the forms of those involved to create some measure of fairness, and— God bless his innocence— he had not bothered to change back into a proper outfit after returning home. This was to say that, this evening, Valjean was in his shirtsleeves, and faintly flushed from exertion. It was a Herculean task for Javert to restrain himself from staring. And Valjean was smiling the entire time, speaking enthusiastically of some topic or another— such a radiant smile… 

Once Javert finished his meal, he made his excuses and absconded the situation as soon as he could. 

But this time, instead of rushing out the door to the portal, Javert found himself going upstairs to the house’s spare bedroom. Even though it had been nominally his the whole time, he had barely used it— he knew that when he slept, he tended to dream of Valjean, and that might be… awkward… if Valjean was present in the same house. But he had gone up to it now, and the only path out to the portal would require being seen by Valjean again, which after that interaction, he did not think he was prepared to do.

He had never ceased to be certain that Valjean’s sentiments were either friendship or pity. Thus, he could not admit defeat in Grantaire’s bet. Still, he could not claim victory when all the evidence was implicit. And he would _not_ back out of the bet when neither outcome was determined, because he was not a _coward_. He would just have to wait a bit longer, perhaps, before the victory presented itself.

Well, there was very little point in delaying it. Javert changed into a nightshirt (it seemed the dresser had generated all the essentials in his size), lay in the bed, and for the first time in so long, slept.

***

_The next morning. Valjean._

Valjean was preparing fresh fruits for breakfast, as he waited for Javert to return. Hm. He was usually back by now— oh, right, he had gone upstairs instead of out last night. Well, this was breakfast for two, so hopefully he would come down soon.

He was setting out the table, when Javert appeared on the staircase. 

Javert rubbed his eyes as he padded down the stairs; he was clad in a nightshirt, and his hair was unbound. In the morning light, his half-greyed hair shimmered, and his brown skin looked almost golden. There was an air of serenity about him that Valjean had never seen before— had last night been the first time he had slept here, in all this time? He was… beautiful… 

Valjean realised he had been staring, and made to look away. At almost the same moment, Javert noticed Valjean’s presence, and startled. “Oh— sorry, I should dress—” he half-turned to go back up— 

“No, it’s no matter; come and have breakfast.” Valjean scarcely knew what he was saying. Javert opened his mouth to argue, but seemingly changed his mind.

Breakfast was not particularly eventful, but Javert continued to be unreasonably beautiful like this. Valjean felt a stirring in his heart that— no, this was not new at all, he had felt it before, many times.

“Well— thank you for the meal. I really should dress, now, though; there is an event with the group today.” Javert disappeared back upstairs.

And… Valjean knew, somehow he knew so acutely, that this was not merely close friendship, this indescribable emotion that filled his heart. 

He could no longer deny it. He could no longer say it was uncertain. He was in love with Javert.

***

_February, 1834._

Despite Valjean’s newfound awareness of his own sentiments, and despite his awareness that they _may_ be reciprocated, he had not acted upon them. This was due to what he had concluded from a change in Javert’s behaviour.

Javert, over the last couple months, had become even more reclusive than before. Even as Valjean tried to subtly hint— tried to get closer— Javert only became even more of a hermit.

Valjean’s inference from this was that, even if Javert had ever felt anything more than friendship for Valjean, the Inspector must have lost these feelings. Perhaps he had finally recognised Valjean’s true worthlessness. This was what Valjean truly believed, and he would _certainly_ not bet his heart on the chance of it being false. He would still occasionally extend invitations to spend time together, but had abandoned hope of anything more than mere friendship.

***

_Javert._

However, Javert’s understanding of his own behaviour was rather different. His reason for this reclusive behaviour was that he had accepted it to be a fact that Valjean would never reciprocate his feelings.

Javert continued to accept when he was asked to participate in shared activities with Valjean. He was not so callous to _entirely_ push Valjean away— he could not hurt the man more, not with all he had already done, and he could not bear to entirely separate himself from him either. But, he would always leave whenever his sentiments became too much to bear, and sometimes, he would try to avoid Valjean entirely, to avoid receiving such invitations. He could not risk the truth coming out, and he was sure his heart could not withstand much further teasing. 

The meetings with Grantaire had become much less frequent. The boy still occasionally stopped by, or met Javert in the Paris night, but Javert never actively sought him out any more. He could not bear to be reminded of the bet— not when he had become far too much of a coward to ever reach a verdict one way or the other.

***

_March, 1834. Valjean._

One day, Valjean was in his garden, picking the ripe tomatoes, and Javert was passing through the same part of the garden on his way back from a portal. On a momentary whim, Valjean asked if Javert would like to assist him, and— though Valjean was not particularly expecting this— Javert accepted.

The first few minutes of this were not particularly eventful (though there was a strange tension in the air). The two men occupied themselves picking from separate plants. Neither spoke.

But then, they both went to place a tomato in the basket at the same moment. Their hands touched. A second passed like this. Then, Javert was the one to pull his hand away, and Valjean cursed his own foolishness— but then Valjean glanced at Javert’s face, and— was he blushing?

Javert looked away, busying himself with a plant on the other side of him, but there was enough of a moment for Valjean to tell that Javert had, indeed, been blushing at the touch of their hands. Gears began to turn somewhere in Valjean’s mind.

A few more minutes passed— silent gardening, with no interaction between the two men.

“Perhaps we should spend time together more often.” The words slipped from Valjean’s mouth without particular thought. Oh— was it too much of an imposition— was—

“I— yes, perhaps.” And Valjean began— perhaps _wanted—_ to dismiss the words as feigned politeness, and the stutter as him having been caught off guard, but then he caught the fact that Javert’s face had flushed a little more, and—- was that— a hint of a genuine smile, forming on Javert’s face? He had little time to tell, because Javert soon stood up. “Well. This was nice. I have somewhere to be.” And with a nod, he was off.

But in this moment, Valjean stopped to consider. He considered the way Javert had smiled at him. The way Javert had blushed. Perhaps… 

...Perhaps Valjean should end his continued inaction.

***

_Javert._

Javert had to stop Valjean’s _pity_. Dear God, it was _painful_. There was no way he could actually have meant— no, it was just an unfortunate misphrasing, and Javert’s affirmative response had been on a foolish, wishful whim. Their hands had brushed, but Valjean had certainly not— lingered— and if he had, it must have been friendly. Yes, he was just being friendly, just unwittingly happening to express his wishes for friendship in all the ways that made Javert’s heart ache for more.

Javert _had_ to stop this. He enjoyed Valjean’s company, very much so— but he could not allow these all-far-too- _ambiguous_ expressions of what _had_ to be either friendship or pity to continue. His heart could not take it.

***

_Valjean._

The next time Javert was heading to the portal, Valjean stopped him. This would be the night that he would tell Javert the truth.

“Wait. This time… I’d like to go with you.”

Javert hesitated, but agreed to it, and led Valjean through the portal, out of the alley, onto a main street. Valjean looked up.

“Wow…” 

“Yes, it’s beautiful, is it not? The night sky was never this clear in the real Paris, but here the streetlights seem to no longer compromise the darkness between the stars. Perhaps the sky is drawn from other memories. Follow me.”

They walked, but Valjean did not cast his gaze down from the sky yet, only keeping Javert in his peripheral vision to follow him—then, they stopped and were in the middle of a bridge.

Javert looked to Valjean wistfully—only to startle at the mix of shock and confusion he found in the other man’s eyes. It was only then that he seemed to realise the presumption Valjean had made as to the significance of this destination. 

“Wait, no—this is not where I—” Javert stammered, trying to explain. “I— can see how you would think what you do about… why I took you here, but— it is not true.”

Valjean’s posture relaxed a little, though he was still concerned. Javert spoke again, quieter: “If you really want to know, _that_ was where…”, he trailed off, gesturing to an embankment a little downstream of their position, before continuing, “but, I—didn’t mean for that to have anything to do with it. You asked to come with me, so— I took you here for the view, of the city, and the stars, and—”

Valjean took his hand. “Thank you.”

Javert pulled away as if the other man was on fire. 

Valjean blinked rapidly. “Javert…?” Why would he— but Valjean thought— had Valjean misinterpreted that day in the garden entirely— 

“How could someone like you be so nice to someone like me?”

Valjean merely stared at Javert, with an expression of confusion and hurt. 

“No, not like— not like _that_ , oh God— you’re an absolute saint, Valjean, I just…” Javert shook his head. 

“…What do you mean?”

“ _Why_ do you still afford me your charity, your friendship? Can’t you see that I am pathetic?”

“I— I do it because I care about you, Javert.”

“No, you could never care— in the way I—”, he cut himself off, “you _shouldn’t!_ You shouldn’t even try, not with _me_.”

“But I _want to_ , because I…” Valjean trailed off; he could not finish the sentence. Javert took this as an opportunity to interrupt.

“How can you lower yourself to offering _me_ friendship— I ruined your life!” 

“And how can _you_ act as if _you’re_ unworthy — when— _it’s my fault you’re dead!_ ” The words tumbled out of Valjean’s mouth without thought, as he suddenly noticed the tears spilling from his eyes.

“NO. No, no, _no_ , it’s _NOT_ your damn fault, you’re a better man than I could _ever_ be.” Javert turned away.

Valjean caught his shoulder. “And— that’s _why_ , isn’t it? It’s because I— it’s because of _me_ , that you— that you killed yourself!”

Javert pulled away his shoulder from the touch, but was nevertheless facing Valjean again. There was a flame of anger in his pale blue eyes now. “You showed me I was wrong— that doesn’t make you my _murderer!_ It’s _my fault alone_ that I couldn’t deal with the knowledge— Goddammit, Valjean, I don’t blame _you_ for _anything!_ ”

And yet, this did not bring Valjean out of his spiral of all his bottled-up regrets. “But then— then I saw you had gone, and I chose not to follow you. If only—” 

Javert cut him off, stepping closer. “No! You had every right to hate me, Valjean; it would have been _stupid_ for you to rescue me, so stop martyring yourself for _not!_ ”

“ _Stupid?_ It would have been _right!_ Just as it’s right for me to— to care about you here!” Valjean would not have said ‘care about’, but the verb he meant to use had caught in his throat.

“Ha, what a story!” Javert scrunched his eyes shut. “ _Stop_ trying to make _any_ of this your fault— stop trying to justify your maddening _pity_ of me! I am the only fool, the only killer, the only bad man here— I almost wish I could die again, so that this time I could get what I—”

Javert did not finish the sentence, because at that moment, Valjean grabbed his face and kissed him.

When Valjean broke the kiss, Javert was speechless, stunned; he could only look at Valjean in surprise, eyes blinking and mouth gaping as he tried to process what just happened. Valjean almost thought he had made a terrible mistake, and was about to open his mouth to stutter out an apology— but then he saw how Javert’s face lost almost all signs of age as the meaning sunk in, and then, Javert managed to near-silently articulate two words:

“…really? You…”

At the unspoken question, _‘you love me?’_ , Valjean merely nodded, a smile beginning to form on his face.

And suddenly, Javert was kissing him, and he was kissing back, and the sun was rising over this imagined Paris that had until then been eternally shrouded in night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [THROWS CONFETTI] WOOOO WE GOT HERE! NEXT CHAPTER IS EPILOGUE!
> 
> It should be noted that I totally visualised the sunrise over the bridge at the end as that sunrise in Shoujo Cosette episode 46 that saves Javert’s life. If you haven’t watched Shoujo Cosette (it’s a 52-episode anime adaptation of Les Mis), I definitely recommend it; it’s actually a really good adaptation, and there’s a full playlist with English subtitles on YouTube. There are some great brick-accurate moments in it that basically no other adaptation has, and the few isolated glaring changes caused by the shift in target audience are pretty much all Good Changes— and through the combination of those few big changes with a general shift of themes, it manages to be _orders of magnitude_ less depressing than canon. Be warned, there are extended depictions of child abuse— Cosette’s life with the Thénardiers is an A-plot or B-plot in all of the first ten or so episodes— but if you’re prepared to interact with that content, it’s a _really_ good adaptation, and I highly recommend it to all Les Mis fans.


	4. Tomorrow (EPILOGUE)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue time! Hahah whoops this took a long time; school took over my life, and a couple scenes were inexplicably hard to write. But at least I finished it in time for it to be my barricade day present to the fandom! I hope you all liked this fic, and I also hope that this is a satisfactory conclusion.

As the reader will recall, the previous chapter concluded with Valjean and Javert standing on a bridge in Javert’s Corner, kissing as the sun rose.

They continued this for a while, as neither man was inclined to break away; it was an indescribably beautiful experience to bask in the reciprocation of the feelings that had been suppressed and dismissed for so long. When their faces parted, the sunrise had well and truly finished. 

It was then that Javert made an observation. “You’ve got brown hair now.”

Valjean stared blankly for a second. Then, he looked downwards and saw some of his beard in his peripheral vision— “...So I do. And— you look younger as well.” This was the truth; not only had Javert’s face lost all the creases of age, but the areas of his hair that had been greying before were now just as dark and shiny as the rest. 

It was then that another aspect of their changed appearances was observed by Valjean— the fact that they were both now clad in all white.

“I suppose this is a signal that our clothes are under our respective control now,” Javert said, surveying the details of his own new outfit. “...I can’t believe Grantaire _actively chose_ to get back into that waistcoat,” he muttered to himself.

“Hm?”

“...Nothing. Just an old inside joke with,” Javert half-shrugged with a hint of a smile instead of verbally completing the sentence, but the intended last two words of the sentence were ‘a friend’— and Javert made no attempt to conceal this from Valjean.

There was a moment when no particular topics of conversation came to either of their minds. Moments like these had been unbearably awkward before, when they were both trying to conceal their feelings— but now, they had found a new way to pass the time. They seemed to both have this thought simultaneously; it was unclear which of them initiated this kiss.

This time, Javert had a whim, which then became a creation— a large and comfortable-looking chaise lounge sprung up in the corner of his vision. He broke the kiss for a moment to indicate the lounge’s presence to Valjean— who then smiled, and pulled Javert down onto it. There was laughter as they fell awkwardly on top of each other, and their mouths came together once more. 

Then, all of a sudden, Valjean sat up, gently pushing Javert off of him. Javert startled. Had he done something wrong? But Valjean’s brow furrowed in a way not indicative of offence, but belated worry. “Wait, Javert— did you really mean all those things you said before?” 

Oh. That. Javert supposed he must explain. He took a deep breath, clearing his head. “I… I thought you did not feel the same way I did. I could not bear to be ‘pitied’, as I thought it was, any further. I thought, perhaps, if I pushed you away from me, convinced you I was not worthy, I would escape that state of living in your home and accepting your friendship but unable to act on that which I felt so fervently. But now. Well. This is a far better conclusion.” A pause. “…How long _have_ you felt this way towards me?”

“I realised what it was in December— but looking back… I think I might have loved you since I arrived. Maybe even in life. It came on so gradually that I cannot say for sure. And you?”

Javert considered the question; it was surprisingly difficult for him to answer. “…Well. The answer to that _really_ depends on where the line is drawn to define the word ‘love’. I suppose it was in life by _any_ reasonable definition, for sure, but _when_ exactly…” he made a dismissive gesture, “it’s a long story.”

Valjean was willing to drop the topic to return to kissing. Though this was an outdoor space, neither particularly cared; even if the Corner had not been entirely empty save for the pair, they were both entirely consumed by their feelings for each other— and besides, here, no adverse consequences _could_ have come from a stranger discovering them. A few minutes later, though, Valjean broke away. 

“Well, I suppose we should return to the house, ask Fantine for advice and all.”

“Indeed,” Javert acknowledged. “We could just summon a portal here… but, would you like to take the scenic route?”

There was an irresistible quirk in Javert’s brow as he said this.Valjean agreed to the suggestion.

The pair made their meandering way to the portal linking the Corner to Valjean’s. They took a great many detours along the way, to view various locations in the newfound sunlight— and to kiss each other at frequent intervals.

By the time they reached the portal, the sun was at a mid-morning height. Javert dramatically flourished a bow. “After you,” he said, gesturing for Valjean to pass into the portal.

When they contacted Fantine, she was delighted to hear of what had happened. There was some indication that she had expected something like this to eventually occur, or at least hoped for it. After expressing this, she explained that, by solving a major part of their emotional issues, Valjean and Javert had become fully realised, and found their young forms. Nonetheless, it was made clear that they may wear traits from later in life (and even incorporate these traits into their default forms) if they so wished, as becoming fully realised allows one to shift to any form that is congruent with one’s soul. Bishop Myriel was mentioned as an example of a person who chose a default form with some old-looking traits. 

“Hm.” Valjean considered this; he flickered through a selection of forms of a variety of ages, hair colours, and hairstyles, including some combinations of traits that had never actually coexisted in life.

Javert attempted to assist. “If my input would be any help, I quite like the white hair… though I do like the brown too… and the grey… I think I just like you.”

“Aww, come here,” Valjean said, smiling affectionately. Javert enthusiastically obliged.

Fantine, quite appreciably, took the cue to leave. “Well, you can change it whenever you want, no need to make one decision now! If you have any more questions, just contact me; I’ll see you both later!”

She was halfway to the door when it was kicked open by Grantaire; as it just so happened, he had decided to pay Javert a visit today. He was about to yell some sort of vulgar yet affectionate greeting in the direction of his friend, when he noticed the activity said friend was partaking in at the moment—that is, kissing Jean Valjean.

Therefore, the sentence Grantaire yelled instead (as Fantine slipped past him to exit the building) was, “ _Oh my god, **FINALLY!**_ ”

Both of the pair were startled, looking over to Grantaire with expressions akin to that of a child caught taking the last cookie from the jar. But Grantaire was no disapproving mother arriving to scold; on the contrary, he was overjoyed to know that the two old men had at long last figured it out. 

“ _EVERYONE_ was hoping for this, I have to go tell them all! This is great! I just won like, ten different bets! Including that one with you, ‘Vert; don’t you think for a _second_ that I forgot about that!”

At that last sentence, Javert rolled his eyes and Valjean tilted his head in mild confusion.

Grantaire was just turning to exit again, when Fantine rushed back in, smiling excitedly. “Guys? You have to see this.” 

All three men followed her back outside, and saw what had happened— the house and the environment around it had transformed. The left half of the house, and the countryside to that side of it, was unchanged, but the right half had morphed into a much more sleek and urban shape, with an attic and a balcony added— and to the right of the house, the landscape was now that of Javert’s Paris scene, whose eternal night had so recently ended. 

Javert was thoroughly amazed. “I… I was never able to summon or edit structures before! And this _must_ have been me; I _just then_ had a thought about how I would miss my old Corner if I were to live in this one all the time!”

“Not only that, but the Corners fused. Two existing Corners fusing so that their inhabitants can live together! That is… well, not unheard of, but definitely uncommon— and Javert, you said it happened without even a specific command? Ability to edit the landscape is just as linked to mental state as form is— it seems that you have a talent for it now that you’re fully realised!”

Javert considered this hypothesis. To test it, he imagined a treehouse, and gestured in the direction of a specific tree— and with barely any effort at all, the treehouse appeared in it, just as he had pictured. He gazed in astonishment at the proof of his ability.

“Well, call on me if you want any more info!— I need to research this!— bye!”

Javert and Valjean both turned to farewell Fantine, and saw that Grantaire had already left without a word.

“Wow, rude,” Javert said, in an exaggeratedly offended tone. Even Valjean could tell it was a joke. “Well, in any case…” He shyly rested one hand on Valjean’s lower back and gestured in the general direction of their home— a question.

Valjean blushed and nodded. “Indeed,” he responded— an answer to the affirmative. As the two of them walked the path back to the dual house’s front door, Javert noticed that the plaque above the door, previously just marking the house as Valjean’s, now bore both their names. He stopped for a moment to trace the letters with a wistful smile.

A sound akin to a stampede caught Javert’s attention. He craned his neck to look behind him, and there was a crowd approaching— a crowd of friends, and acquaintances, and people he did not know but supposed must be known to Valjean— a crowd led by Grantaire. 

Javert deflated in annoyance that he and Valjean had yet again been interrupted. 

Valjean, noticing this, patted Javert’s back reassuringly. “Patience. We have eternity.”

 

It was soon quite apparent that Grantaire had not been exaggerating at all when he said that _everyone_ had hoped for this outcome. A multitude of congratulations were given, just as many questions were asked, and some acquaintances confessed that they had assumed a relationship to already be the case. Throughout the whole event, Grantaire was inordinately smug about having correctly guessed many of the circumstances of the relationship’s inception; the visible irritation of some of his friends at this conceit confirmed that he had indeed placed wagers upon these circumstances beforehand. 

Eventually, the hubbub of celebration subsided. Javert and Valjean went back into their house. And this time, they were not interrupted.

***

So, Javert and Valjean, joined by their newfound connection, went on with their lives—or afterlives, as it were. 

As it happened, the fused Corner had a proper day-night cycle, in both halves of it; the days were somewhat shorter on average than they had been in Valjean’s corner, but the nights were exactly as scenic as they had always been in Javert’s. (We say ‘on average’, as it was quite irregular, often varying to suit the wishes of the inhabiting pair.)

It came as a further pleasant surprise that there were _seasons_. The sky of Javert’s Corner had imitated the way the Earthen night sky’s appearance changed with the passage of time, and the soil of Valjean’s had followed something of a seasonal pattern in how its plants grew; now, it seemed these two facts had combined into full-blown seasons. Both halves of the Corner now experienced perceptibly warmer weather in summer, falling leaves in autumn, snow in winter (as well as temperatures that granted utility to the house’s fireplace), and new wild growth in spring. No attempt was made by the Corner to synchronise with Earth, of course— but this irregularity, like that of the diurnal cycle, was really more of a convenience than a confusion.

As time passed, Valjean and Javert explored and discovered every inch of the Corner; this never became boring, as every now and then a new feature would appear. 

Sometimes their home entertained visitors, and they would chat merrily over a meal or by the fire. Javert seemed much less reluctant to consider the youths from the barricade his friends now than he had been before. The spare rooms— the one that had been Javert’s before he moved into Valjean’s bed, as well as a chamber in the attic that had formed upon the fusion of the Corners— were occasionally occupied by guests who found some novelty in staying overnight. 

Just as often, however, Javert and Valjean were the only inhabitants of the Corner. Sometimes they would find interest in a book, or go on a walk, or talk for hours about events both recent and far bygone— in the process, oft finding and clearing up points of vague unease or regret in their histories that neither of them had pinpointed before. Other times, few words were needed, but suffice to say that both of them were _more than content_. 

Their fondness for each other only grew over time; both of these men, after years of loneliness, had finally come to understand the true meaning of paradise. 

***

One day, on a walk through the Paris half of the Corner, Javert demonstrated the existence of the invisible barrier above the Seine to Valjean. He had been considering various methods ever since he realised he had not yet done this (after all, watching the stars from a good seated vantage point was an experience he wished to share with Valjean), and had eventually settled upon using an inanimate object as an initial example, even though this was one of the least dramatic options— the barrier’s imperviousness was not limited to living beings, and he did not wish the demonstration to be unnecessarily upsetting.

“Watch this”, Javert said, summoning an unremarkable stone and beckoning Valjean over to the nearby parapet. He threw the stone, and as expected, it was stopped by the barrier less than a metre below the edge.

“The barrier prevents anything from falling any further than that level,” he explained, as Valjean observed how the stone had, to all appearances, landed on thin air. Then, a sentence spoken on impulse— “I suppose, in a Corner made for _me_ , such precautions were only wise…”

Javert regretted the morbid joke the second it exited his mouth, but to his surprise, Valjean did seem to find some of the humour in it.

***

Over tea with Fantine on an autumn afternoon, Valjean inquired as to what had become of the trainee tour guide program. He learned that it had not been made standard, nor entirely scrapped— but reimagined. Fantine explained that the trials had indicated that the absence of a receptionist and the unavailability of some otherwise available tutorials often led to a surfeit of unnecessary drama (Valjean nodded, and could not entirely suppress a chuckle), but nevertheless, that management valued the dramatic effect the program added to arrival.

Therefore, a version more compatible with the usual system had been implemented. If a soul was positively acquainted with somebody who has now become a trainee, that soul will be guided by that trainee from their body to their receptionist— then, after the receptionist has done her job, the trainee will come back and guide the soul to their Corner. 

The guide’s role after that would be somewhat reduced, as the automatic and angel tutorials available in the existing system would be just as available to these souls, Fantine explained, and now that the trial had finished, there was nothing to stop Valjean from opting in to access these. As it happens, he did, though it did not become relevant often, as he had already learned many of the things that these tutorials would have taught.

***

Eventually, the informative arrivals began. 

In 1843 arrived one M. Gillenormand, who, despite having lived a life of improbable length, did not die of natural causes, but rather an accident during festivities.

Nearly all of those shown his final moments— which, by the way, were quite an amusing sequence of events, if one’s sense of humour was not deterred by the fact that a man had died as their result— inquired as to how Gillenormand had come to be judged ‘redeemable’ at all (a question which the reader likely wishes to pose as well, all things considered). This was answered; the context angel’s explanation cited something of an ideological turn in recent years, genuine regret for some particularly damning actions, and clauses in his will that would generously benefit some good causes. Of course, his case was practically a textbook demonstration of the fact that redeemability does not always equal instant access to paradise— he had a great many unforgiven _debts_ remaining upon arrival, most particularly with one Georges Pontmercy— but once a sufficiently cathartic portion of those were _settled_ for the moment, arrangements were made for him to report the status of Marius and Cosette to all those who wished to know.

He explained that the pair was doing well, with four beautiful children— the first two of whom were a daughter named Fantine and a son named Jean.

“You know, at the time I could not make heads or tails of the situation— to name their daughter some fanciful made-up thing, and then their son the same as half the men in France!— well, that’s what I said at the time, and _now_ I see why neither of them spoke to me for a month afterwards!” Gillenormand briefly laughed, until he noticed that his amusement was shared by nobody else, especially not the children’s namesakes. 

It seemed Gillenormand was slightly _(slightly)_ more observant of others’ wishes than he had been in life— after approximately twenty seconds of tense silence, he picked up on the general wish for an apology, and began rambling on about how of course he did not believe that now, and how he was sure the namesakes were both very fine people, and things to that effect. 

Eventually, he noticed that nobody was asking any further specific questions about Cosette and Marius. “Is there anyone who wants to know more? No? Well, I must be off, then; I’ve an appointment with some poor fellow from a couple decades past who wants to get even for something— really, I’m not sure who he is, but I suppose whatever I did must’ve meant a lot to him.”

Nobody was at all opposed to the idea of Gillenormand leaving; therefore, he did.

A young man leaned to Fantine and muttered a question— “Say… would it be allowed for me to make an ‘appointment’ as he put it, even if I never met him in life?”

Fantine snorted. “I get what you mean— and yes, that is actually a thing that can be done, but direct grievances from life take priority, and… I can hazard a guess that he’ll be booked solid with those for a while.”

***

One night, as Javert and Valjean lay side by side in their bed, Valjean spoke. 

“I’d like to know the full story.”

Javert gave an inquisitive glance.

“The— full story of how you came to love me. That you held back on telling me that first day. It may be long, but… we quite literally have all the time in the universe, so.”

“Ah. Well, if you would like to hear it, I… actually would quite like to tell it. All I hope is that— it will not change how you feel about me, to know these things.” 

“This is the story of how you grew to love me, and of how you became your current self that I love so much, is it not?”

“…It is.” Javert would not have phrased it in that way himself, but… this was not an _inaccurate_ description in any particular way; he could not deny that.

“The fact that you love me; the fact that you, as you currently exist— that _you_ are in all truth the person I have fallen in love with— these things are true, are they not?”

“…They are.” Javert was not entirely sure where Valjean was going with these questions.

“Well— given that… I _very much_ doubt anything in this story could shake my love for you. If what you are afraid to reveal is that you were not always a good person, or that you did not always respect me— you must not forget that I have memories too; _I know this already_. But I also know that _you have changed_ — that no matter what you did or thought then, it does not necessarily reflect who you are now. So please, tell me; I would quite rather there to be no secrets between us.” Valjean gently placed one of his hands over Javert’s, looking into his eyes with pure sincerity.

Javert had not thought about it like that before— and it was like a weight had been lifted.

That night, Javert told the truth, the whole truth, about his side of the story on Earth— and it was such a relief to be able to do so. 

And, in some strange way, it was a relief to Valjean as well.

***

In 1855 arrived Azelma Thénardier, who was warmly welcomed by her siblings Éponine and Gavroche. For a moment, Éponine took this to mean that her morally bankrupt father had managed to outlive all of his three eldest children, as she hadn’t heard anything of him since her own death. However, when Azelma said that his life had ended more than a decade prior, the true reason for his absence was immediately understood— an explanation that was entirely logical given his behaviour on Earth, and one to which nobody who knew of him had any objections.

***

A peaceful day. Valjean entered the house, having just returned from a market of skilled creations, where he and Javert had traded garden vegetables for carved decorations. Javert had insisted on carrying the basket of trinkets on the way back; instead of insisting the contrary, Valjean had picked up Javert and carried _him_ for some of the way. Javert had taken a minor detour, but he would be home soon. Valjean smiled. He felt blessed.

Then, the house announced that ‘Gervais Giroud (1805-1864)’ intended to visit. 

It seemed to immediately sense Valjean’s need for clarification. “You met him in 1815; you would have known him as Petit-Gervais—” 

Valjean’s eyes went wide; he interrupted, his voice suddenly loud and rough. “Enough.” The house did not continue. “I understand,” Valjean finished, almost a whisper, almost a sob. 

So, one of the darkest points of his past was finally catching up with him. Perhaps it was a greater evil than the theft itself that Valjean had almost forgotten about the boy. He sat on the couch, head in his hands. Fortunately, Javert soon entered the room, and saw how Valjean was feeling.

“You seem anxious. …Could I help to ease your nerves?” Javert put down the trinkets and sat beside Valjean, placed a hand on his thigh— oh, Valjean knew the meaning of the look in Javert’s eyes _very_ well— 

And Valjean _certainly_ appreciated the sentiment, but he had to refuse. “We’re expecting a visitor! What if he arrived early and saw…” Valjean shook his head, drawing breath. “Not now.”

“Alright.” Javert nodded. “Just— I want to help you, however I can; I can’t bear to see you like this…”

Valjean supposed he could talk about it, at least. “I’m sure you heard what the house said— _Petit-Gervais_ is visiting. This child… I was cruel to him, Javert. I don’t know if I can face him, after what I did.”

“First of all— he wouldn’t be a _child_ , not any more. How long did it say he lived— 59 years?— that’s a grown man, Jean. That’s older than _I_ ever was.” Valjean had to concede that this was true; perhaps it would make facing Gervais a little easier, but he doubted it would be by much. “And second— I’m sure he would know the whole story, now.”

Valjean did not quite understand. 

“If he’s coming to visit you, his receptionist has told him about you— and if she did, she would have told him the whole story. How you barely knew what you were doing when you stole the coin, how deeply you regretted it from the very moment you understood— and how good a person you’ve become now. He would almost certainly have forgiven you. I mean, think of all the people who forgave _me_ , just from learning how and why I died…”

Part of Valjean was reassured. “Thank you.” He stood, pressed a gentle kiss to Javert’s forehead, and walked to a position where he could more effectively watch the door. Still, there was a part of him that continued to worry, to dread the visitor.

He did not have to dread for long, however. The house soon announced, “Your visitor, Gervais Giroud, has arrived.”

Valjean opened the door, and beheld— indeed, a grown man, taller than Valjean, with a moustache and beard; he bore only the slightest resemblance to the Petit-Gervais Valjean had met all those years ago. 

It was thoroughly unexpected to Valjean when the man greeted him with a hug.

“M. Giroud? Are you sure you have the right man? I— I stole from you…”

“Oh, yes, I believe when we last met I looked more like this?” The man shifted to a young form, which did indeed match Valjean’s memories.

Valjean was not entirely sure how to respond— what could he— “And I, something like this…?” He changed the style and colour of his hair and beard to something resembling how he must have looked on parole. Alright, this was extremely awkward; he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He changed back to as he had been (not entirely unaware of the fact that it was taking more effort than usual to differ from what his soul wanted him to look like), and Gervais took the cue to do the same.

Still entirely unsure of the correct course of action, Valjean gestured for the man to come inside. 

“I still do not understand. Why are you— being so friendly to me, when the only time we ever met, I stole your money?”

“Monsieur— I forgive you for it all, I—” he collected himself, “Let me tell you a story.”

Valjean nodded curiously.

“So, this happened in the summer of ‘23, right. I heard from a friend that M. Madeleine, mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, was giving out money to any little traveling-worker Savoyard who passed through the town. Well, I wasn’t much of a _child_ by then, of course, but I hadn’t forgotten my trade— figured I might pass that way anyway, see if it was true. But in one of the towns I passed through, a gentleman reading the newspaper asked where I was going, I said ‘Montreuil-sur-Mer; I’ve heard good things about the mayor’, and you know what he said?”

The summer of 1823. That was when Valjean went back to Toulon, after turning himself in at Arras. The dread in Valjean came to a peak. “...What did he say?”

“He looked at me like I was mad, and flipped his newspaper back to a page he’d been looking at before, and said, ‘you’re out of luck, then; the fellow you’re talking about just got arrested’, and he showed me the newspaper— well, I couldn’t read, but he told me it said that M. Madeleine had just turned out to be a convict named Jean Valjean and went back to prison, and I took his word for it. I remember, I was disappointed that I had to turn back— the Calais was quite a long way from where I’d been— but I didn’t really think much of it after that.”

Valjean blinked. How did any of this lead to forgiveness?

“Anyway, the rest of my life went by— met a nice girl, settled down, had a few kids, some illness got me in the end— then, I show up in heaven, receptionist’s telling me names of people I ought to meet, and she says, ‘Jean Valjean, 1769-1833, stole your forty-sou coin in 1815, but before you go fight him, you should know—’ I stop her, ‘n’ ask, ‘Jean Valjean?— the Jean Valjean who was going by Madeleine in ‘23?’— she says yes. ‘Is that why he was givin’ out money to little Savoyards?— because he wanted to pay me back?’ She says yes again, and starts listin’ off all the other good things you’ve done, and all the other ways you regretted stealing the coin, but honestly, I’d already forgave you on knowing the first thing. And so, I came to visit, once I’d spent some time with my family and my wife and all.”

“So…” Valjean could barely believe it— “you… really don’t hold it against me at all?”

“Not at all! ‘Course, I was frightened for a bit, and I woulda used that money if I’d kept it— but I managed— and with what I know now, well, of course I forgive you! Honestly, I’d mostly forgotten about the theft by the time the receptionist mentioned it; wasn’t the only time I’d gotten robbed when traveling between towns, or the scariest. Maybe the _strangest_ — you were just staring at nothin’, didn’t even seem to know you had my coin— but of course, she told me why that was as well. Now I think of it, do you have the address of that Bishop Myriel?— I forgot to ask her it, but now I’d like to meet him…”

And then Valjean was laughing, and crying, and he didn’t entirely know why he was doing either, but he could not stop, and what was this emotion called?— was it relief?— no, relief was far too weak a word for what this was— and he felt a burden on his soul lift that he hadn’t truly known was there until this very moment, but that had been indescribably heavy. 

***

It was a night like any other, following an evening like any other; Valjean and Javert lay sleepily intertwined on their bed.

On most nights otherwise identical to this one, blissful silence would have been enough— but this time, Javert spoke. “You know, I can’t stop thinking— back all that time ago, when we were first figuring it out, you said that you could have saved me, fished me out of the river and made me live, and lately, I’ve been wondering more and more… what would that have been like? How could we have grown and changed, if we had time on Earth to do it?” A second of silence— then, he shook his head. “…Forget I said that; I don’t want you to have to dwell on it or—”

“No… I wonder that sometimes too, even now. I think, in that world… we might have ended up together just as we did here, but— maybe it would have taken longer, or been a more difficult journey, without the, ah… convenient information that helped us along here.”

Javert softly chuckled against Valjean’s shoulder. “Indeed…”

“Besides… didn’t we find out the other day from that newly arrived relative of one of your friends that the year was now 1876? So… I think, in that world, we’d be exactly like this, now. Together in Heaven.”

Javert smiled. He propped himself up on his elbows, and kissed Valjean.

***

Time continued to progress. Soon, it was early 1882, and Valjean and Javert were called to attend the arrival of Marius Pontmercy. According to the arrival clip, he died peacefully in his sleep, of old age. 

When Marius exited the door, he looked every day of his seventy-two years, perhaps even older. But after reuniting with his parents, and his friends— after talking with them for a while— after, presumably, finally learning firsthand that his friends didn’t blame him for anything, that his survival was not a betrayal, that they were in fact _glad_ that somebody lived to tell the tale of their side of the barricade— well, after that, he barely looked any older than when Valjean had last seen him on Earth. Indeed, the dark circles under his eyes, which Valjean had never seen him without, were gone as well.

It was only then that he approached one of our pair. 

“Inspector Javert? Oh, I never returned your pistols, I—” he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

Marius’ expression seemed to indicate that he believed he had genuinely wronged Javert. Was this ninny _really_ still occupied with a debt from a half-century ago? Javert tried to make a joke of it. “Yes, well, it’s not as if you had any time to.”

Marius stared blankly at Javert. 

Javert tried to clarify the joke, though still in his usual deadpan voice. “You know, given that I died within a day of them,” he gestured to the nearby ABC members. 

It seemed that Marius had never gleaned Javert’s intent; he appeared much more intimidated than amused. 

Valjean swooped in. “Stop it, love; you’re scaring him,” he said, attempting to conceal some amusement, as he took Javert’s arm to gently pull him away from Marius.

It should be noted that Marius, being the man he was, did not immediately glean anything beyond mere friendship from Valjean’s words alone. However, the true nature of the relationship was clarified for him only a few moments later, when Javert kissed Valjean. 

No single word could describe the extent to which Marius was baffled, perplexed, befuddled, bemused, confounded, or puzzled at _this_ turn of events. 

Grantaire laughed as he walked over and clapped Marius on the back. “Oh, man. You’ve missed a _lot._ ”

   
_Will you join in our crusade?_  
_Who will be strong and stand with me?_  
_Somewhere beyond the barricade, is there a world you long to see?_  
 

The next time Valjean was called to attend an arrival… it was that of Cosette. 

She passed peacefully, surrounded by family; it could be observed that some of her grandchildren were almost adults themselves. 

Through the new form of the guide system, Fantine accompanied Cosette as her soul made its way from Earth to Heaven.

Practically as soon as she had passed through the door leading to her Corner, Cosette rushed to Marius and embraced him. 

“How long has it been...?” he asked. 

“Five months,” she answered, through tears.

When Cosette met the youths from the barricade, she was far from the only person to say something to the effect of ‘Marius told me so much about you’. In the conversation that followed, everyone involved expanded upon their respective versions of this statement; they all found some amusement in learning which details of themselves Marius had seen fit to recount— and in Cosette’s case, which subsets of these details had been mentioned to whom.

Éponine and Azelma were also present at her arrival. They were not particularly expecting forgiveness for their actions during Cosette’s childhood— but it was granted, as Cosette’s receptionist had explained, among other context, the extent to which the girls’ parents had incited the behaviour. (The _present location_ of said parents was stated in passing at one point— and Cosette, of course, was not surprised in the slightest.)

Valjean waited around the margins for a time. If he had presented himself, Cosette would certainly have enthusiastically reunited with him then— but, unsure what to do, he instead waited for her to notice him. 

And soon enough, she did. And when she did, she came running towards him and hugged him tight. For some reason, he was only half-expecting something like this, but… to say it was _welcome_ would be the understatement of the century. He hugged her back, and it was just like before, as if they had not just spent fifty-nine years apart.

“Cosette… I love you…”

“I love you too, Papa…”

He released her from the hug and sighed; he supposed he must address this matter sooner rather than later. “I’ve had a lot of time to think and— I’m sorry for all my mistakes as a father. All the times I lied to you.”

“Papa— _I don’t resent you for any of it_. Perhaps we can talk about it later— but for now— please just know that I hold none of it against you _._ ”

Valjean hugged Cosette again, even tighter this time. And if there were tears forming in his eyes, they were entirely not of sorrow. 

 

As the hug was ending, Javert approached. “Ah, so _you’re_ the Cosette who Jean’s told me so much about.”

Cosette looked at Javert for a moment. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, I don’t believe we ever did meet in life. Jean, if you might introduce us…?”

“Ah. Yes. Javert, this is Cosette, my daughter. Cosette, this is… Javert…” Valjean stalled, entirely unsure how to concisely summarise his history with Javert. Javert decided to indicate their current connection, at least, by taking Valjean’s hand. Valjean blushed, but appreciated the clarification, and nodded in Cosette’s direction, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “…Yes.”

Cosette, having quite more intuition on these matters than her husband, nodded with an expression of understanding. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Javert.” A pause; then, she addressed Valjean once more. “I now have further questions.”

   
_Do you hear the people sing?_  
_Say, do you hear the distant drums?_  
_It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes!_  
 

Valjean chuckled, gently squeezing Javert’s hand. “I suppose you would. Well, it’s a long story.”

   
_Ah, ah, ah…_  
_Tomorrow comes!_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand curtain call.
> 
> I hope you all liked this fic! I certainly learned a lot in the process of writing it. I’ll probably write more Les Mis stuff in future— maybe even something longer than this— but as it is I feel like finishing this is an accomplishment to be proud of. I’ve written a 20k valvert fic, and people enjoy it! I mean, it not exactly something I can brag about to my English teacher about, but it’s an _accomplishment_! Also, your love and comments give me life, even if I don't always respond to them, so keep it up, future readers.
> 
> (Parallels between Valjean unexpectedly hugging Javert as a symbol of forgiveness in chapter 1, and both Gervais and Cosette unexpectedly hugging Valjean as symbols of forgiveness in this chapter? In _my_ fic? It’s more likely than you think)

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Comments are always appreciated! If you like it, I _really_ want to know, especially given it's my first multi-chapter fic; the more indication I get that people like this fic, the more motivation I will have to keep writing!


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